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DREAMTHORP 


A    BOOK    OF    ESSAYS    WRITTEN    IN 
THE    COUNTRY 


BY 


ALEXANDER    SMITH 

AUTHOR  OF  "  A   LIFE    DRAMA  "    "  CITY   POEMS  "    ETC. 


BOSTON  1889 
LfiE    AND    SHEPARD    Publishers 

10  MILK  STREET  NEXT  "  THE  OLD  SOOTH  MEETING-HOUSE  " 

NEW  YORK  CHARLES  T.  DILLINGHAM 

718  AND  720  BROADWAY 


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i^QliSO    J 


rta* 

I.    DREAMTHORP, 7 

II.    ON  THE  WRITING  OP  ESSAYS,        ....  27 

III.  OF  DEATH  AND  THE   FEAR  OF  DYING,     .        .  62 

IV.  WILLIAM  DUNBAR, 72 

V.    A  LARK'S   FLIGHT, 98 

VI.    CHRISTMAS, 118 

VII.    MEN  OF  LETTERS, 141 

VIII.    ON    THE    IMPORTANCE    OF    A    MAN    TO 

HIMSELF, 171 

IX.    A   SHELF  IN   MY  BOOKCASE, 191 

X.    GEOFFREY  CHAUCER, 214 

XL    BOOKS  AND  GARDEiiS, 249 

XII.    ON  VAGABONDS, 271 

(3) 


D  R  E  A  M  T  II  0  R  p. 


IT  matters  not  to  relate  how  or  when  I  became  a 
denizen  of  Dreamthorp ;  it  will  be  sufficient  to 
say  that  I  am  not  a  born  native,  but  that  I  came  to 
reside  in  it  a  good  while  ago  now.  The  several  towns 
and  villages  in  which,  in  my  time,  I  have  pitched  a 
tent  did  not  please,  for  one  obscure  reason  or  another : 
this  one  was  too  large,  t'  other  too  small ;  but  when, 
on  a  summer  evening  about  the  hour  of  eight,  I  first 
beheld  Dreamthorp,  with  its  westward-looking  win- 
dows painted  by  sunset,  its  children  playing  in  the 
single  straggling  street,  the  mothers  knitting  at  the 
open  doors,  the  fathers  standing  about  in  long  white 
blouses,  chatting  or  smoking ;  the  great  tower  of  the 
ruined  castle  rising  high  into  the  rosy  air,  with  a 
whole  troop  of  swallows  —  by  distance  made  as  small 
as  gnats  —  skimming  about  its  rents  and  fissures  ;  — 
when  I  first  beheld  all  this,  I  felt  instinctively  that 
my  knapsack  might  be  taken  off"  my  shoulders,  that 
my  tired  feet  might  wander  no  more,  that  at  last,  on 
the  planet,  I  had  found  a  home.  From  that  evening 
I  have  dwelt  here,  and  the  only  journey  I  am  like 

(T) 


8  Dreamthorj). 

now  to  make,  is  the  very  inconsiderable  one,  so  far 
at  least  as  distance  is  concerned,  from  the  house  in 
which  I  live  to  the  graveyard  beside  the  ruined  castle. 
There,  with  the  former  inhabitants  of  the  place,  I  trust   / 
to  sleep  quietly  enough,  and  nature  will    draw  over  j 
our  heads  her  coverlet  of  green    sod,   and   tenderly  ) 
tuck  us  in,  as  a  mother  her  sleeping  ones,  so  that  no 
sound  from  the  world  shall  ever  reach  us,  and  no  sor- 
row trouble  us  any  more. 

The  village  stands  far  inland.;  and  the  streams  that 
trot  through  the  soft  green  valleys  all  about  have  as 
little  knowledge  of  the  sea,  as  the  three-years'  child 
of  the  storms  and  passions  of  manhood.  The  sur-. 
rounding  country  is  smooth  and  green,  fuU  of  imdula- 
tions  ;  and  pleasant  country  roads  strike  through  it  in 
every  direction,  bound  for  distant  towns  and  villages, 
yet  in  no  hurry  to  reach  them.  On  these  roads  the 
lark  in  summer  is  continually  heard ;  nests  are  plenti- 
ful in  the  hedges  and  dry  ditches  ;  and  on  the  grassy 
banks,  and  at  the  feet  of  the  bowed  dikes,  the  blue- 
eyed  speedwell  smiles  its  benison  on  the  passing 
wayfarer.  On  these  roads  you  may  walk  for  a  year 
and  encounter  nothing  more  remarkable  than  the 
country  cart,  troops  of  tawny  children  from  the 
woods,  laden  with  primroses,  and  at  long  inters'als  — 
for  people  in  this  district  live  to  a  ripe  age  —  a  black 
funeral  creeping  in  from  some  remote  hamlet ;  and  to 
this  last  the  people  reverently  doff  then*  hats  and 
stand  aside.     Death  does  not  walk  about  here  often, 


Dreamthorp.  9 

but  when  he  does  he  receives  as  much  respect  as  the 
squire  himself.  Every  thing  round  one  is  unhurried, 
quiet,  moss-grown,  and  orderly.  Season  follows  in 
the  track  of  season,  and  one  year  can  hardly  be  dis- 
tinguished from  another.  Time  should  be  measured 
here  by  the  silent  dial,  rather  than  by  the  ticking 
clock,  or  by  the  chimes  of  the  church.  Dreamthorp 
Can  boast  of  a  respectable  antiquity,  and  in  it  the 
trade  of  the  builder  is  unknown.  Ever  since  I  re- 
member, not  a  single  stone  has  been  laid  on  the  top 
of  another.  The  castle,  inhabited  now  by  jackdaws 
and  starlings,  is  old ;  the  chapel  which  adjoins  it  is 
older  still;  and  the  lake  behind  both,  and  in  which 
their  shadows  sleep,  is,  I  suppose,  as  old  as  Adam. 
A  fountain  in  the  market-place,  aU  mouths  and  faces 
and  curious  arabesques,  —  as  dry,  however,  as  the 
castle  moat,  —  has  a  tradition  connected  with  it ;  and 
a  great  noble  riding  through  the  street  one  day  several 
hundred  years  ago,  was  shot  from  a  window  by  a  man 
whom  he  had  injured.  The  death  of  this  noble  is  the 
chief  link  which  connects  the  place  with  authentic 
history.  The  houses  are  old,  and  remote  dates  may 
yet  be  deciphered  on  the  stones  above  the  doors  ;  the 
apple-trees  are  mossed  and  ancient ;  countless  genera- 
tions of  sparrows  have  bred  in  the  thatched  roofs,  and 
thereon  have  chirped  out  their  lives.  In  every  room 
of  the  place  men  have  been  born,  men  have  died. 
On  Dreamthorp  centuries  have  fallen,  and  have  left 
no   more    trace  than  have  last   winter's    snowflakes. 


10  Dreamthorp. 

This  commonplace  sequence  and  flowing  on  of  life  is 
immeasurably  afiecting.  That  winter  morning  when 
Charles  lost  his  head  in  front  of  the  banqueting-hall 
of  his  own  palace,  the  icicles  hung  from  the  eaves  of 
the  houses  here,  and  the  clown  kicked  the  snowballs 
from  his  clouted  shoon,  and  thought  but  of  his  sup- 
per when,  at  three  o'clock,  the  red  sun  set  in  the 
purple  mist.  On  that  Sunday  in  June,  while  Water- 
loo was  going  on,  the  gossips,  after  morning  service, 
stood  on  the  country  roads  discussing  agricultural 
prospects,  without  the  slightest  suspicion  that  the  day 
passing  over  their  heads  would  be  a  famous  one  in 
the  calendar.  Battles  have  been  fought,  kings  have 
died,  history  has  transacted  itself;  but,  all  unheeding 
and  untouched,  Dreamthorp  has  watched  apple-trees 
redden,  and  wheat  ripen,  and  smoked  its  pipe,  and 
quaffed  its  mug  of  beer,  and  rejoiced  over  its  new- 
born children,  and  with  proper  solemnity  carried  its 
dead  to  the  churchyard.  As  I  gaze  on  the  village  of 
my  adoption,  I  think  of  many  things  very  far  re- 
moved, and  seem  to  get  closer  to  them.  The  last 
setting  sun  that  Shakspeare  saw  reddened  the  win- 
dows here,  and  struck  warmly  on  the  faces  of  the 
hinds  coming  home  from  the  fields.  The  mighty 
storm  that  raged  while  Cromwell  lay  a-dying  made  all 
the  oak-woods  groan  round  about  here,  and  tore  the 
thatch  from  the  very  roofs  I  gaze  upon.  When  I 
think  of  this,  I  can  almost,  so  to  speak,  lay  my  hand 
on  Shakspeare  and  on  Cromwell.     These  poor  walls 


Dreamthorp.  11 

were  contemporaries  of  both,  and  I  find  something 
affecting  in  the  thought.  The  mere  soil  is,  of  course, 
f£ir  older  than  either,  but  it  does  not  touch  one  in  the 
'  same  way.  A  wall  is  the  creation  of  a  human  hand, 
the  soil  is  not. 

This  place  suits  my  whim,  and  I  like  it  better  year 
after  year.  As  with  every  thing  else,  since  I  began  to 
love  it  1  find  it  gradually  growing  beautiful.  Dream- 
thorp —  a  castle,  a  chapel,  a  lake,  a  straggling  strip  of 
gray  houses,  with  a  blue  film  of  smoke  over  all  —  lies 
embosomed  in  emerald.  Summer,  with  its  daisies, 
runs  up  to  every  cottage  door.  From  the  little  height 
where  I  am  now  sitting,  I  see  it  beneath  me.  Nothing 
could  be  more  peaceful.  The  wind  and  the  birds  fly 
over  it.  A  passing  sunbeam  makes  brUliant  a  white 
gable-end,  and  brings  out  the  colors  of  the  blossomed 
apple-tree  beyond,  and  disappears.  I  see  figures  in  the 
street,  but  hear  them  not.  The  hands  on  the  church 
clock  seem  always  pointing  to  one  hour.  Time  has 
fallen  asleep  in  the  afternoon  sunshine.  I  make  a 
frame  of  my  fingers,  and  look  at  my  picture.  On  the 
walls  of  the  next  Academy's  Exhibition  will  hang 
nothing  half  so  beautiful ! 

My  village  is,  I  think,  a  special  favorite  of  sum- 
mer's. Every  window-sill  in  it  she  touches  with 
color  and  fragrance  ;  every  where  she  wakens  the 
drowsy  murmurs  of  the  hives  ;  every  place  she  scents 
with  apple-blossom.  Traces  of  her  hand  are  to  be 
seen  on  the  weir  beside  the  ruined  mill ;    and  even 


12  Dreamthorp. 

the  canal,  along  which  the  barges  come  and  go,  has  a 
great  white  water-lily  asleep  on  its  olive-colored 
face.  Never  was  velvet  on  a  monarch's  robe  so  gor- 
geous as  the  green  mosses  that  bc-ruff  the  roofs  of 
farm  and  cottage,  when  the  sunbeam  slants  on  them 
and  goes.  The  old  road  out  towards  the  common, 
and  the  hoary  dikes  that  might  have  been  built  in 
the  reign  of  Alfred,  have  not  been  forgotten  by  the 
generous  adorning  season ;  for  every  fissure  has  its 
mossy  cushion,  and  the  old  blocks  themselves  are 
washed  by  the  loveliest  gray-green  lichens  in  the 
world,  and  the  large  loose  stones  lying  on  the  ground 
have  gathered  to  themselves  the  peacefulest  mossy 
coverings.  Some  of  these  have  not  been  disturbed 
for  a  century.  Summer  has  adorned  my  village  as 
gayly,  and  taken  as  much  pleasure  in  the  task,  as  the 
people  of  old,  when  Elizabeth  was  queen,  took  in  the 
adornment  of  the  May-pole  against  a  summer  festival. 
And,  just  think,  not  only  Dreamthorp,  but  every  Eng- 
lish village  she  has  made  beautiful  after  one  fashion 
or  another — making  vivid  green  the  hill  slope  on 
which  straggling  white  Welsh  hamlets  hang  right 
opposite  the  sea  ;  drowning  in  apple-blossom  the  red 
Sussex  ones  in  the  fat  valley.  And  think,  once  more, 
every  spear  of  grass  in  England  she  has  touched  with 
a  livelier  green  ;  the  crest  of  every  bird  she  has  bur- 
nished ;  every  old  wall  between  the  four  seas  has  re- 
ceived her  mossy  and  licheny  attentions ;  every  nook 
iu  every  forest  she  has  sown  with  pale  flowers,  every 


Dreamthorp.  13 

marsh  she  has  dashed  with  the  fires  of  the  marigold. 
And  in  the  wonderful  night  the  moon  knows,  she 
hangs  —  the  planet  on  which  so  many  millions  of  us 
fight,  and  sin,  and  agonize,  and  die  —  a  sphere  of 
glow-worm  light. 

Having  discoursed  so  long  about  Dreamthorp,  it  is 
but  fair  that  I  should  now  introduce  you  to  her  lions. 
These  are,  for  the  most  part,  of  a  commonplace  kind ; 
and  I  am  afraid  that,  if  you  wish  to  find  romance  in 
them,  you  must  bring  it  with  you.  I  might  speak  of 
the  old  church- tower,  or  of  the  church-yard  beneath 
it,  in  which  the  village  holds  its  dead,  each  resting- 
place  marked  by  a  simple  stone,  on  which  is  inscribed 
the  nam?  and  age  of  the  sleeper,  and  a  Scripture 
text  beneath,  in  which  live  our  hopes  of  immortality. 
But,  on  the  whole,  perhaps  it  will  be  better  to  begin 
with  the  canal,  which  wears  on  its  olive-colored  face 
the  big  white  water-lily  already  chronicled.  Such  a 
secluded  place  is  Dreamthorp  that  the  railway  does 
not  come  near,  and  the  canal  is  the  only  thing  that 
connects  it  with  the  world.  It  stands  high,  and  from 
it  the  undulating  country  may  be  seen  stretching  away 
into  the  gray  of  distance,  with  hills  and  woods,  and 
stains  of  smoke  which  mark  the  sites  of  villages. 
Every  now  and  then  a  horse  comes  staggering  along 
the  towing-path,  trailing  a  sleepy  barge  filled  with 
merchandise.  A  quiet,  indolent  life  these  bargemen 
lead  in  the  summer  days.  One  lies  stretched  at  his 
length  on  the   sun-heated  plank ;    his  comrade  sits 


14  Dreamthorp. 

smoking  in  the  little  dog-hutch,  which  I  suppose  he 
calls  a  cabin.  Silently  they  come  and  go ;  silently 
the  wooden  bridge  lifts  to  let  them  through.  The 
horse  stops  at  the  bridge-house  for  a  drink,  and  there 
I  like  to  talk  a  little  with  the  men.  They  serve  in- 
stead of  a  newspaper,  and  retail  with  great  willingness 
the  news  they  have  picked  up  in  their  progress  from 
town  to  town.  I  am  told  they  sometimes  marvel  who 
the  old  gentleman  is  who  accosts  them  from  beneath 
a  huge  umbrella  in  the  sun,  and  that  they  think  him 
either  very  wise  or  very  foolish.  Not  in  the  least  un- 
natural !  We  are  great  friends,  I  believe  —  evidence 
of  which  they  occasionally  exhibit  by  requesting  me 
to  disburse  a  trifle  for  drink-money.  This  canal  is  a 
great  haunt  of  mine  of  an  evening.  The  water  hardly 
invites  one  to  bathe  in  it,  and  a  delicate  stomach 
might  suspect  the  flavor  of  the  eels  caught  therein ; 
yet,  to  my  thinking,  it  is  not  in  the  least  destitute  of 
beauty.  A  barge  trailing  up  through  it  in  the  sunset 
is  a  pretty  sight ;  and  the  heavenly  crimsons  and 
purples  sleep  quite  lovingly  upon  its  glossy  ripples. 
Nor  docs  the  evening  star  disdain  it,  for  as  I  walk 
along  I  see  it  mirrored  therein  as  clearly  as  in  the 
waters  of  the  Mediterranean  itself. 

The  old  castle  and  chapel  already  alluded  to  are, 
perhaps,  to  a  stranger,  the  points  of  attraction  in 
Dreamthorp.  Back  from  the  houses  is  the  lake,  on 
the  green  sloping  banks  of  which,  with  broken  win- 
dows and  tombs,  the  ruins  stand.    As  it  is  noon,  and 


Dreamthorp.  IS 

the  weather  is  warm,  let  us  go  and  sit  on  a  turret. 
Here,  on  these  very  steps,  as  old  ballads  tell,  a  queen 
sat  once,  day  after  day,  looking  southward  for  the 
light  of  returning  spears.  I  bethink  me  that  yesterday, 
no  further  gone,  I  went  to  visit  a  consumptive  shoe- 
maker ;  seated  here  I  can  single  out  his  very  house, 
nay,  the  very  window  of  the  room  in  which  he  is  lying. 
On  that  straw  roof  might  the  raven  alight,  and  flap  his 
sable  wings.  There,  at  this  moment,  is  the  supreme 
tragedy  being  enacted.  A  woman  is  weeping  there, 
and  little  children  are  looking  on  with  a  sore  bewilder- 
ment. Before  nightfall  the  poor  peaked  face  of  the 
bowed  artisan  will  have  gathered  its  ineffable  peace, 
and  the  widow  will  be  led  away  from  the  bedside  by 
the  tenderness  of  neighbors,  and  the  cries  of  the 
orphan  brood  will  be  stUled.  And  yet  this  present 
indubitable  sujSering  and  loss  does  not  touch  me  like 
the  sorrow  of  the  woman  of  the  ballad,  the  phantom 
probably  of  a  minstrel's  brain.  The  shoemaker  will 
be  forgotten  —  I  shall  be  forgotten ;  and  long  after 
visitors 'will  sit  here  and  look  out  on  the  landscape 
and  murmur  the  simple  lines.  But  why  do  death  and 
dying  obtrude  themselves  at  the  present  moment  ? 
On  the  turret  opposite,  about  the  distance  of  a  gun- 
shot, is  as  pretty  a  sight  as  eye  could  wish  to  see. 
Two  young  people,  strangers  apparently,  have  come 
to  visit  the  ruin.  Neither  the  ballad  queen,  nor  the 
shoemaker  down  yonder,  whose  respirations  are  getting 
shorter  and  shorter,  touches  them  in  the  least.     They 


16  Dreamthorp. 

are  merry  and  happy,  and  the  graybeard  turret  has 
not  the  heart  to  thrust  a  foolish  moral  upon  thorn. 
They  would  not  thank  him  if  he  did,  I  dare  say.  Per- 
haps they  could  not  understand  him.  Time  enough  ! 
Twenty  years  hence  they  will  be  able  to  sit  down  at 
his  feet,  and  count  griefs  with  him,  and  tell  him  tale 
for  tale.  Human  hearts  get  ruinous  in  so  much  less 
time  than  stone  walls  and  towers.  See,  the  young  man 
has  thrown  himself  down  at  the  girl's  feet  on  a  little 
space  of  grass.  In  her  scarlet  cloak  she  looks  like  a 
blossom  springing  out  of  a  crevice  on  the  ruined  steps. 
He  gives  her  a  flower,  and  she  bows  her  face  down 
over  it  almost  to  her  knees.  What  did  the  flower  say? 
Is  it  to  hide  a  blush  ?  He  looks  delighted  ;  and  I 
almost  fancy  I  see  a  proud  color  on  his  brow.  As  I 
gaze,  these  young  people  make  for  me  a  perfect  idyl. 
The  generous,  ungrudging  sun,  the  melancholy  ruin, 
decked,  like  mad  Lear,  with  the  flowers  and  ivies  of 
forgetfulness  and  grief,  and  between  them,  sweet  and 
evanescent,  human  truth  and  love  ! 

Love !  —  does  it  yet  walk  the  world,  or  is  it  im- 
prisoned in  poems  and  romances  ?  Has  not  the 
circulating  library  become  the  sole  home  of  the  pas- 
sion ?  Is  love  not  become  the  exclusive  property 
of  novelists  and  playwrights,  to  be  used  by  tbem 
only  for  professional  purposes  ?  Surely,  if  the  men  I 
see  are  lovers,  or  ever  have  been  lovers,  they  would 
be  nobler  than  they  are.  The  knowledge  that  he  is 
beloved   should  —  must  make  a  man  tender,  gentle, 


Dreamthorp.  17 

upright,  pure.  While  yet  a  youngster  in  a  jacket,  I 
can  remember  falling  desperately  in  love  with  a  young 
lady  several  years  my  senior,  —  after  the  fashion  of 
youngsters  in  jackets.  Could  I  have  fibbed  in  these 
days  ?  Could  I  have  betrayed  a  comrade  ?  Could  I 
have  stolen  eggs  or  callow  young  from  the  nest  ?  Could 
I  have  stood  quietly  by  and  seen  the  weak  or  the 
maimed  bullied  !  Nay,  verily  !  In  these  absurd  days 
she  lighted  up  the  whole  world  for  me.  To  sit  in  the 
same  room  with  her  was  like  the  happiness  of  per- 
petual holiday ;  when  she  asked  me  to  run  a  message 
for  her,  or  to  do  any,  the  slightest,  service  for  her,  I 
felt  as  if  a  patent  of  nobility  were  conferred  on  me,  I 
kept  my  passion  to  myself,  like  a  cake,  and  nibbled 
it  in  private.  Juliet  was  several  years  my  senior,  and 
had  a  lover  —  was,  in  point  of  fact,  actually  engaged; 
and,  in  looking  back,  I  can  remember  I  was  too 
much  in  love  to  feel  the  slightest  twinge  of  jealousy. 
I  remember  also  seeing  Romeo  for  the  first  time,  and 
thinking  him  a  greater  man  than  Caesar  or  Napoleon. 
The  worth  I  credited  him  with,  the  cleverness,  the 
goodness,  the  every  thing  !  He  awed  me  by  his  man- 
ner and  bearing.  He  accepted  that  girl's  love  coolly 
and  as  a  matter  of  course  :  it  put  him  no  more  about 
than  a  crown  and  sceptre  puts  about  a  king.  What  I 
would  have  given  my  life  to  possess  —  being  only  four- 
teen, it  was  not  much  to  part  with  after  aU  —  he  wore 
lightly,  as  he  wore  his  gloves  or  his  cane.  It  did  not 
seem  a  bit  too  good  for  him.  His  self-possession 
2 


18  Dreamthorp. 

apalled  me.  If  I  had  seen  him  take  the  sun  out  of 
the  sky,  and  put  it  into  his  breeches'  pocket,  I  don't 
think  I  should  have  been  in  the  least  degree  sur- 
prised. Well,  years  after,  when  I  had  discarded  my 
passion  with  my  jacket,  I  have  assisted  this  middle- 
aged  Romeo  home  from  a  roystering  wine  party,  and 
heard  him  hiccup  out  his  marital  annoyances,  with 
the  strangest  remembrances  of  old  times,  and  the 
strangest  deductions  therefrom.  Did  that  man  with 
the  idiotic  laugh  and  the  blurred  utterance  ever  love  ? 
Was  he  ever  capable  of  loving  ?  I  protest  I  have  my 
doubts.  But  where  are  my  young  people  ?  Gone  ! 
So  it  is  always.  We  begin  to  moralize  and  look  wise, 
and  Beauty,  who  is  something  of  a  coquette,  and  of 
an  exacting  turn  of  mind,  and  likes  attentions,  gets 
disgusted  with  our  wisdom  or  our  stupidity,  and  goes 
off  in  a  huff.     Let  the  baggage  go  ! 

The  ruined  chapel  adjoins  the  ruined  castle  on 
which  I  am  now  sitting,  and  is  evidently  a  building  of 
much  older  date.  It  is  a  mere  shell  now.  It  is  quite 
roofless,  ivy  covers  it  in  part ;  the  stone  tracery  of  the 
great  western  window  is  yet  intact,  but  the  colored 
glass  is  gone  with  the  splendid  vestments  of  the  abbot, 
the  fuming  incense,  the  chanting  choirs,  and  the 
patient,  sad-eyed  monks,  who  muttered  Aves,  shrived 
guilt,  and  illuminated  missals.  Time  was  when  this 
place  breathed  actual  benedictions,  and  was  a  home 
of  active  peace.  At  present  it  is  visited  only  by  the 
stranger,  and  delights  but  the  antiquary.     The  village 


Dreamthorp,  19 

people  have  so  little  respect  for  it,  that  they  do  not 
even  consider  it  haunted.  There  are  several  tombs  in 
the  interior  bearing  knights'  escutcheons,  which  time 
has  sadly  defaced.  The  dust  you  stand  upon  is  noble. 
Earls  have  been  brought  here  in  dinted  mail  from 
battle,  and  earls'  wives  from  the  pangs  of  child-bear- 
ing. The  last  trumpet  will  break  the  slumber  of  a 
right  honorable  company.  Ono  of  the  tombs  —  the 
most  perfect  of  all  in  point  of  preservation  —  I  look  at 
often,  and  try  to  conjecture  what  it  commemorates. 
With  all  my  fancies,  I  can  get  no  further  than  the  old 
story  of  love  and  death.  There,  on  the  slab,  the 
white  figures  sleep  ;  marble  hands,  folded  in  prayer, 
on  marble  breasts.  And  I  like  to  think  that  he  was 
brave,  she  beautiful  ;  that  although  the  monument 
is  worn  by  time,  and  sullied  by  the  stains  of  the 
weather,  the  qualities  which  it  commemorates  —  hus- 
bandly and  wifely  aifection,  courtesy,  courage,  knightly 
scorn  of  wrong  and  falsehood,  meekness,  penitence, 
charity  —  are  existing  yet  somewhere,  recognizable 
by  each  oth?r.  The  man  who  in  this  world  can  keep 
the  whiteness  of  his  soul,  is  not  likely  to  lose  it  in 
any  other. 

In  summer  I  spent  a  good  deal  of  time  floating 
about  the  lake.  The  landing-place  to  which  my  boat 
is  tethered  is  ruinous,  like  the  chapel  and  palace,  and 
my  embarkation  causes  quite  a  stir  in  the  sleepy  little 
village.  Small  boys  leave  their  games  and  mud-pies, 
and  gather  round  in  silence  ;  they  have  seen  me  get 


20  Dreamthorp. 

off  a  hundred  times,  but  their  interest  in  the  matter 
seems  always  new.  Not  unfrequently  an  idle  cobbler, 
in  red  nightcap  and  leathern  apron,  leans  on  a  broken 
stile,  and  honors  my  proceedings  with  his  attention. 
I  shoot  off,  and  the  human  knot  dissolves.  The  lake 
contains  three  islands,  each  with  a  solitary  tree,  and 
on  these  islands  the  swans  breed.  I  feed  the  birds 
daily  with  bits  of  bread.  See,  one  comes  gliding  to- 
wards me,  with  superbly  arched  neck,  to  receive  its 
customary  alms  !  How  wildly  beautiful  its  motions  ! 
How  haughtily  it  begs  !  The  green  pasture  lands 
run  down  to  the  edge  of  the  water,  and  into  it  in  the 
afternoons  the  red  kine  wade  and  stand  knee-deep  in 
their  shadows,  surrounded  by  troops  of  flies.  Patiently 
the  honest  creatures  abide  the  attacks  of  their  tor- 
mentors. Now  one  swishes  itself  with  its  tail,  — now 
its  neighbor  flaps  a  huge  ear.  I  draw  my  oars  along- 
side, and  let  my  boat  float  at  its  own  wiU.  The  soft 
blue  heavenly  abysses,  the  wandering  streams  of  va- 
por, the  long  beaches  of  rippled  cloud,  are  glassed 
and  repeated  in  the  lake.  Dreamthorp  is  silent  as  a 
picture,  the  voices  of  the  children  are  mute  ;  and  the 
smoke  from  the  houses,  the  blue  pillars  all  sloping 
in  one  angle,  float  upward  as  if  in  sleep.  Grave  and 
stem  the  old  castle  rises  from  its  emerald  banks, 
which  long  ago  came  down  to  the  lake  in  terrace  on 
terrace,  gay  with  fruits  and  flowers,  and  with  stone 
nj-mph  and  satjTs  hid  in  every  nook.  Silent  and 
empty  enough    to-day !     A  flock  of  daws    suddenly 


Dreamthorp.  21 

bursts  out  from  a  turret,  and  round  and  round  they 
wheel,  as  if  in  panic.  Has  some  great  scandal  ex- 
ploded ?  Has  a  conspiracy  been  discovered  ?  Has 
a  revolution  broken  out  ?  The  excitement  has  sub- 
sided, and  one  of  them,  perched  on  the  old  banner- 
staff,  chatters  confidentially  to  himself  as  he,  sideways, 
eyes  the  world  beneath  him.  Floating  about  thus, 
time  passes  swiftly,  for,  before  I  know  where  I  am, 
the  kine  have  withdrawn  from  the  lake  to  couch  on 
the  herbage,  while  one  on  a  little  height  is  lowing 
for  the  milkmaid  and  her  pails.  Along  the  road  I 
see  the  laborers  coming  home  for  supper,  while  the  sun 
setting  behind  me  makes  the  village  windows  blaze ; 
and  so  I  take  out  my  oars,  and  pull  leisurely  through 
waters  faintly  flushed  with  evening  colors. 

I  do  not  think  that  Mr.  Buckle  could  have  VTitten 
his  "  History  of  Civilization"  in  Dreamthorp,  because 
in  it  books,  conversation,  and  the  other  appurtenances 
of  intellectual  life,  are  not  to  be  procured.  I  am  ac- 
quainted with  birds,  and  the  building  of  nests  —  with 
wild-flowers,  and  the  seasons  in  which  they  blow,  — 
but  with  the  big  world  far  away,  with  what  men  and 
women  are  thinking,  and  doing,  and  saying,  I  am  ac- 
quainted only  through  the  Times,  and  the  occasional 
magazine  or  review,  sent  by  friends  whom  I  have  not 
looked  upon  for  years,  but  by  whom,  it  seems,  I  am 
not  yet  forgotten.  The  village  has  but  few  intellec- 
tual wants,  and  the  intellectual  supply  is  strictly 
measured  by  the  demand.      Still  there  is  something. 


22  Dreamthorp. 

Do\vn  in  the  village,  and  opposite  the  curiously-carved 
fountain,  is  a  school-room  which  can  accommodate  a 
couple  of  hundred  people  on  a  pinch.  There  are  our 
public  meetings  held.  Musical  entertainments  have 
been  given  there  by  a  single  performer.  In  that 
school-room  last  winter  an  American  biologist  terrified 
the  villagers,  and,  to  their  simple  understandings, 
mingled  up  the  next  world  with  this.  Now  and  again 
some  rare  bird  of  an  itinerant  lecturer  covers  dead 
walls  with  posters,  yellow  and  blue,  and  to  that 
school-room  we  flock  to  hear  him.  His  rounded 
periods  the  eloquent  gentleman  devolves  amidst  a 
respectful  silence.  His  audience  do  not  imderstand 
him,  but  they  see  that  the  clergyman  does,  and  the 
doctor  does  ;  and  so  they  are  content,  and  look  as 
attentive  and  wise  as  possible.  Then,  in  connexion 
with  the  school-room,  there  is  a  public  library,  where 
books  are  exchanged  once  a  month.  This  library  is 
a  kind  of  Greenwich  Hospital  for  disabled  novels 
and  romances.  Each  of  these  books  has  been  in 
the-  wars  ;  some  are  unquestionable  antiques.  The 
tears  of  three  generations  have  fallen  upon  their 
dusky  pages.  The  heroes  and  the  heroines  are  of 
another  age  than  ours.  Sir  Charles  Grandison  is 
standing  with  his  hat  under  his  arm.  Tom  Jones 
plops  from  the  tree  into  the  water,  to  the  infinite 
distress  of  Sophia.  Moses  comes  home  from  market 
with  his  stock  of  shagreen  spectacles.  Lovers,  warriors, 
and  villains,  —  as  dead  to  the  present  generation  of 


Dreamthorp.  23 

readers  as  Cambyses,  —  are  weeping,  fighting,  and  in- 
triguing. These  books,  tattered  and  torn  as  they  are, 
are  read  with  delight  to-day.  The  viands  are  celestial 
if  set  forth  on  a  dingy  table-cloth.  The  gaps  and 
chasms  which  occur  in  pathetic  or  perilous  chapters 
are  felt  to  be  personal  calamities.  It  is  with  a  certain 
feeling  of  tenderness  that  I  look  upon  these  books  ;  I 
think  of  the  dead  fingers  that  have  turned  over  the 
leaves,  of  the  dead  eyes  that  have  travelled  along  the 
lines.  An  old  novel  has  a  history  of  its  own.  When 
fresh  and  new,  and  before  it  had  breathed  its  secret, 
it  lay  on  my  lady's  table.  She  killed  the  weary  day 
with  it,  and  when  night  came  it  was  placed  beneath 
her  pillow.  At  the  sea- side  a  couple  of  foolish  heads 
have  bent  over  it,  hands  have  touched  and  tingled, 
and  it  has  heard  vows  and  protestations  as  passionate 
as  any  its  pages  contained.  Coming  down  in  the 
world,  Cinderella  in  the  kitchen  has  blubbered  over  it 
by  the  light  of  a  surreptitious  candle,  conceiving  herself 
the  while  the  magnificent  Georgiana,  and  Lord  Mor- 
daunt,  Georgiana' s  lover,  the  pot-boy  round  the  corner. 
Tied  up  with  many  a  dingy  brother,  the  auctioneer 
knocks  the  bundle  down  to  the  bidder  of  a  few  pence, 
and  it  finds  its  way  to  the  quiet  cove  of  some  village 
library,  where  with  some  difficulty  —  as  if  from  want  of 
teeth  —  and  with  numerous  interruptions  —  as  if  from 
lack  of  memory  —  it  tells  its  old  stories,  and  wakes 
tears,  and  blushes,  and  laughter  as  of  yore.  Thus  it 
spends  its   age,  and  in   a  few  years  it  will  become 


24  Dreamthorp. 

unintelligible,  and  then,  in  the  dust-bin,  like  poor 
human  mortals  in  the  grave,  it  will  rest  from  all  its 
labors.  It  is  impossible  to  estimate  the  benefit 
which  such  books  haA'e  conferred.  How  often  have 
they  loosed  the  chain  of  circumstance  !  What  unfa- 
miliar tears  —  what  unfamiliar  laughter  they  have 
caused !  What  chivalry  and  tenderness  they  have 
infused  into  rustic  loves  !  Of  what  weary  hours  they 
have  cheated  and  beguiled  their  readers  !  The  big, 
solemn  history-books  are  in  excellent  preservation  ; 
the  story-books  are  defaced  and  frayed,  and  their  out- 
of-elbows'  condition  is  their  pride,  and  the  best  justifi- 
cation of  their  existence.  They  are  tashed,  as  roses 
are,  by  being  eagerly  handled  and  smelt.  I  observe, 
too,  that  the  most  ancient  romances  are  not  in  every 
case  the  most  severely  worn.  It  is  the  pace  that  tells 
in  horses,  men,  and  books.  There  are  Nestors 
wonderfully  hale ;  there  are  juveniles  in  a  state  of 
dilapidation.  One  of  the  youngest  books,  "  The 
Old  Curiosity  Shop,"  is  absolutely  falling  to  pieces. 
That  book,  like  Italy,  is  possessor  of  the  fatal  gift ; 
but  happily,  in  its  case,  every  thing  can  be  rectified 
by  a  new  edition.  We  have  buried  warriors  and 
poets,  princes  and  queens,  but  no  one  of  these  was 
followed  to  the  grave  by  sincerer  mourners  than  was 
little  Nell. 

Besides  the  itinerant  lecturer,  and  the  permanent 
library,  we  have  the  Sunday  sermon.  These  sum  up 
the  intellectual  aids  and   furtherances  of  the  whole 


Dreamthorp.  25 

place.  We  have  a  church  and  a  chapel,  and  I  attend 
both.  The  Dreamthorp  people  are  Dissenters,  for 
the  most  part ;  why,  I  never  could  understand ;  be- 
cause dissent  implies  a  cert  lin  intellectual  effort.  But 
Dissenters  they  are,  and  Dissenters  they  are  likely  to 
remain.  In  an  ungainly  building,  filled  with  hard, 
gaunt  pews,  without  an  organ,  without  a  touch  of 
color  in  the  windows,  with  nothing  to  stir  the  im- 
agination or  the  devotional  sense,  the  simple  people 
worship.  On  Sunday,  they  are  put  upon  a  diet  of 
spiritual  bread  and  water.  Personally,  I  should  desire 
more  generous  food.  But  the  laboring  people  listen 
attentively,  till  once  they  fall  asleep,  and  they  wake 
up  to  receive  the  benediction  with  a  feeling  of  having 
done  their  duty.  They  know  they  ought  to  go  to 
chapel,  and  they  go.  I  go  likewise,  from  habit, 
although  I  have  long  ago  lost  the  power  of  following 
a  discourse.  In  my  pew,  and  whilst  the  clergyman 
is  going  on,  I  think  of  the  strangest  things  —  of  the 
tree  at  the  window,  of  the  congregation  of  the  dead 
outside,  of  the  wheat-fields  and  the  corn-fields  be- 
yond and  all  around.  And  the  odd  thing  is,  that  it 
is  during  sermon  only  that  my  mind  flies  off  at  a 
tangent  and  busies  itself  with  things  removed  from 
the  place  and  the  circumstances.  Whenever  it  is 
finished  fancy  returns  from  her  wanderings,  and  I 
am  alive  to  the  objects  around  me.  The  clergy- 
man knows  my  humor,  and  is  good  Christian 
enough  to  forgive  me  ;  and  he  smiles  good-humoredly 


26  Dreamthorp. 

when  I  ask  him  to  let  me  have  the  chapel  keys, 
that  I  may  enter,  when  in  the  mood,  and  preach  a 
sermon  to  myself.  To  my  mind,  an  empty  chapel 
is  impressive ;  a  crowded  one,  comparatively  a  com- 
monplace affair.  Alone,  I  could  choose  my  own  text, 
and  my  silent  discourse  would  not  he  without  its 
practical  applications. 

An  idle  life  I  live  in  this  place,  as  the  world 
counts  it ;  but  then  I  have  the  satisfaction  of  differing 
from  the  world  as  to  the  meaning  of  idleness.  A 
windmill  twirling  its  arms  all  day  is  admirable,  only 
when  there  is  corn  to  grind.  Twirling  its  arms  for 
the  mere  barren  pleasure  of  twii-ling  them,  or  for  the 
sake  of  looking  busy,  does  not  deserve  any  rapturous 
paean  of  praise.  I  must  be  made  happy  after  my  own 
fashion,  not  after  the  fashion  of  other  people.  Here 
I  can  live  as  I  please,  here  I  can  throw  the  reins  on 
the  neck  of  my  whim.  Here  I  play  with  my  own 
thoughts ;  here  I  ripen  for  the  grave. 


ON   THE   WRITING   OF   ESSAYS. 

I  HAVE  already  described  my  environments  and 
my  mode  of  life,  and  out  of  both  I  contrive 
to  extract  a  very  tolerable  amount  of  satisfaction. 
Love  in  a  cottage,  with  a  broken  window  to  let  in 
the  rain,  is  not  my  idea  of  comfort ;  no  more  is  Dig- 
nity, walking  forth  richly  clad,  to  whom  every  head 
uncovers,  every  knee  grows  supple.  Bruin  in  winter- 
time fondly  sucking  his  own  paws,  loses  flesh ;  and 
love,  feeding  upon  itself,  dies  of  inanition.  Take 
the  candle  of  death  in  your  hand,  and  walk  through 
the  stately  galleries  of  the  world,  and  their  splendid 
furniture  and  array  are  as  the  tinsel  armor  and 
pasteboard  goblets  of  a  penny  theatre  ;  fame  is  but 
an  inscription  on  a  grave,  and  glory  the  melancholy 
blazon  on  a  coffin  lid.  We  argue  fiercely  about  hap- 
piness. One  insists  that  she  is  found  in  the  cottage 
which  the  hawthorn  shades.  Another  that  she  is  a 
lady  of  fashion,  and  treads  on  cloth  of  gold.  Wisdom, 
listening  to  both,  shakes  a  white  head,  and  considers 
that  "  a  good  deal  may  be  said  on  both  sides." 

There  is  a  wise  saying  to  the  effect  that  "  a  man 

(27) 


28        On  the    Writing  of  Essai/s. 

can  eat  no  more  than  he  can  hold."  Every  man  gets 
about  the  same  satisfaction  out  of  life.  Mr.  Suddle- 
chops,  the  barber  of  Seven  Dials,  is  as  happy  as  Alex- 
ander at  the  head  of  his  legions.  The  business  of  the 
one  is  to  depopulate  kingdoms,  the  business  of  the 
other  to  reap  beards  seven  days  old ;  but  their  rela- 
tive positions  do  not  affect  the  question.  The  one 
works  with  razors  and  soap-lather,  the  other  with 
battle-cries  and  well-greaved  Greeks.  The  one  of  a 
Saturday  night  counts  up  his  shabby  gains  and  grum- 
bles ;  the  other  on  his  Saturday  night  sits  down  and 
weeps  for  other  worlds  to  conquer.  The  pence  to  Mr. 
Suddlechops  are  as  important  as  are  the  worlds  to 
Alexander.  Every  condition  of  life  has  its  peculiar 
advantages,  and  wisdom  points  these  out  and  is  con- 
tented with  them.     The  varlet  who  sang  — 

"  A  king  cannot  swagger 
Or  get  drunk  like  a  beggar, 
Nor  be  half  so  happy  as  I"  — 

had  the  soul  of  a  philosopher  in  him.  The  harshness 
of  the  parlor  is  revenged  at  night  in  the  servants' 
hall.  The  coarse  rich  man  rates  his  domestic,  but 
there  is  a  thought  in  the  domestic's  brain,  docUe  and 
respectful  as  he  looks,  which  makes  the  matter  equal, 
which  would  madden  the  rich  man  if  he  knew  it  — 
make  him  wince  as  with  a  shrewdest  twinge  of  he- 
reditary gout.  For  insult  and  degradation  are  not 
without  their  peculiar  solaces.  You  may  spit  upon 
Shylock's  gaberdine,  but  the  day  comes  when  he  de- 


On  the   Writing  of  Essays.        29 

mands  his  pound  of  flesh ;  every  blow,  every  insult, 
not  without  a  certain  satisfaction,  he  adds  to  the 
account  running  up  against  you  in  the  day-book  and 
ledger  of  his  hate  —  which  at  the  proper  time  he  will 
ask  you  to  discharge.  Every  way  we  look  we  see 
even-handed  nature  administering  her  laws  of  com- 
p3nsation.  Grandeur  has  a  heavy  tax  to  pay.  The 
usurper  rolls  along  like  a  god,  surrounded  by  his 
guards.  He  dazzles  the  crowd  —  all  very  fine  ;  but 
I'jok  beneath  his  splend'd  trappin-^s  and  you  see 
a  shirt  of  mail,  and  beneath  that  a  heart  cowering  in 
terror  of  an  air-drawn  dagger.  Whom  did  the  memory 
of  Austerlitz  most  keenly  sting  ?  The  beaten  empe- 
rors ?  or  the  mighty  Napoleon,  dying  like  an  untended 
watch-fire  on  St.  Helena  ? 

Giddy  people  may  think  the  life  I  lead  here  staid 
and  humdrum,  but  they  are  mistaken.  It  is  true,  I 
hear  no  concerts,  save  those  in  which  the  thrushes  are 
performers  in  the  spring  mornings.  I  see  no  pictures, 
save  those  painted  on  the  wide  sky-canvas  with  the 
colors  of  sunrise  and  sunset.  I  attend  neither  rout 
nor  ball ;  I  have  no  deeper  dissipation  than  the  tea- 
table  ;  I  hear  no  more  exciting  scandal  than  quiet 
village  gossip.  Yet  I  enjoy  my  concerts  more  than 
I  would  the  great  London  ones.  I  like  the  pictures  I 
see,  and  think  them  better  painted,  too,  than  those 
which  adorn  the  walls  of  the  Royal  Academy ;  and  the 
village  gossip  is  more  after  my  turn  of  mind  than  the 
scandals   that   convulse    the    clubs.      It  is  wonderful 


30  On  the   Writing  of  Essays. 

how  the  whole  world  reflects  itself  in  the  simple  vil- 
lage life.  The  people  around  me  are  full  of  their  own 
affairs  and  interests  ;  were  they  of  imperial  magni- 
tude, they  could  not  be  excited  more  strongly. 
Farmer  Worthy  is  anxious  about  the  next  market ; 
the  likelihood  of  a  fall  in  the  price  of  butter  and 
e^s  hardly  allows  him  to  sleep  o'  nights.  The  village 
doctor  —  happily  we  have  only  one  —  skirrs  hither  and 
thither  in  his  gig,  as  if  man  could  neither  die  nor  be 
born  without  his  assistance.  He  is  continually  stand- 
ing on  the  confines  of  existence,  welcoming  the  new 
comer,  bidding  farewell  to  the  goer-away.  And  the 
robustious  fellow  who  sits  at  the  head  of  the  table 
when  the  Jolly  Swillers  meet  at  the  Blue  Lion  on  Wed- 
nesday evenings  is  a  great  politician,  sound  of  lung 
metal,  and  wields  the  village  in  the  tap-room,  as  my 
Lord  Palmerston  wields  the  nation  in  the  House.  His 
listeners  think  him  a  wiser  personage  than  the  Pre- 
mier, and  he  is  inclined  to  lean  to  that  opinion  him- 
self. I  find  every  thing  here  that  other  men  find  in  the 
big  world.     London  is  but  a  magnified  Dreamthorp. 

And  just  as  the  Rev.  Mr.  White  took  note  of  the 
ongoings  of  the  seasons  in  and  around  Hampshire 
Selborne,  watched  the  colonies  of  the  rooks  in  the 
tall  elms,  looked  after  the  swallows  in  the  cottage  and 
rectory  eaves,  played  the  aff'ectionate  spy  on  the  pri- 
vate lives  of  chaflSnch  and  hedge-sparrow,  was  eaves- 
dropper to  the  solitary  cuckoo  ;  so  here  I  keep  eye 
and  ear  open ;  take  note  of  man,  woman,  and  child ; 


On  the  Writing  of  Essai/s         31 

find  many  a  pregnant  text  imbedded  in  the  common- 
place of  village  life  ;  and,  out  of  what  I  see  and  hear, 
weave  in  my  own  room  my  essays  as  solitarily  as  the 
spider  weaves  his  web  in  the  darkened  corner.  The 
essay,  as  a  literary  form,  resembles  the  lyric,  in  so  far 
as  it  is  moulded  by  some  central  mood  —  whimsical, 
serious,  or  satirical.  Give  the  mood,  and  the  essay, 
from  the  first  sentence  to  the  last,  grows  around 
it  as  the  cocoon  grows  around  the  silkworm.  The 
essay- writer  is  a  chartered  libertine,  and  a  law  unto 
himself.  A  quick  ear  and  eye,  an  ability  to  discern 
the  infinite  suggestiveness  of  common  things,  a  brood- 
ing meditative  spirit,  are  all  that  the  essayist  requires 
to  start  business  with.  Jacques,  in  "  As  You  Like  It," 
had  the  makings  cf  a  charming  essayist.  It  is  not 
the  essayist's  duty  to  inform,  to  build  pathways 
through  metaphysical  morasses,  to  cancel  abuses,  any 
more  than  it  is  the  duty  cf  the  poet  to  do  these  things. 
Incidentally  he  may  do  something  in  that  way,  just  as 
the  poet  may,  but  it  is  not  his  duty,  and  should  not 
be  expocted  of  him.  Skylarks  are  primarily  created 
to  sing,  although  a  whole  choir  of  them  may  be 
baked  in  pies  and  brought  to  table  ;  they  were  born 
to  make  music,  although  they  may  incidentally  stay 
the  pangs  of  vulgar  hunger.  The  essayist  is  a  kind  of 
poet  in  prose,  and  if  questioned  harshly  as  to  his  uses, 
he  might  be  unable  to  render  a  better  apology  for  his 
existence  than  a  flower  might.  The  essay  should  be 
pure  literature  as  the  poem  is  pure  literature.     The 


32         On  the  Writing  of  Essays. 

essayist  wears  a  lance,  but  he  cares  more  for  the 
sharpness  of  its  point  than  for  the  pennon  that 
flutters  on  it,  than  for  the  banner  of  the  captain 
under  whom  he  serves.  He  plays  with  death  as 
Hamlet  plays  with  Yorick's  skull,  and  he  reads  the 
morals  —  strangely  stern,  often,  for  such  fragrant  lodg- 
ing—  which  are  folded  up  in  the  bosoms  of  roses. 
He  has  no  pride,  and  is  deficient  in  a  sense  of  the 
congruity  and  fitness  of  things.  He  lils  a  pebble 
from  the  ground,  and  puts  it  aside  more  carefully 
than  any  gem ;  and  on  a  nail  in  a  cottage-door  he 
will  hang  the  mantle  of  his  thought,  heavily  brocaded 
with  the  gold  of  rhetoric.  He  finds  his  way  into 
the  Elysian  fields  tlirough  portals  the  most  shabby 
and  commonplace. 

The  essayist  plays  with  his  subject,  now  in  whimsi- 
cal, now  in  grave,  now  in  melancholy  mood.  He  lies 
upon  the  idle  grassy  bank,  like  Jacques,  letting  the 
world  flow  past  him,  and  from  this  thing  and  the 
other  he  extracts  his  mirth  and  his  moralities.  His 
main  gift  is  an  eye  to  discover  the  suggestiveness 
of  common  things  ;  to  find  a  sermon  in  the  most  un- 
promising texts.  Beyond  the  vital  hint,  the  first  step, 
his  discourses  are  not  beholden  to  their  titles.  Let 
him  take  up  the  most  trivial  subject,  and  it  will  lead 
him  away  to  the  great  questions  over  which  the 
serious  imagination  loves  to  brood,  —  fortune,  muta- 
bility, death  —  just  as  inevitably  as  the  runnel,  trick- 
ling  among   the    summer   hills,  on  which   sheep   are 


On  the  Writing  of  Essays.        33 

bleating,  leads  you  to  the  sea  ;  or  as,  turning  down 
the  first  street  you  come  to  in  the  city,  you  are  led 
finally,  albeit  by  many  an  intricacy,  out  into  the  open 
country,  with  its  waste  places  and  its  woods,  where 
you  are  lost  in  a  sense  of  strangeness  and  solitariness. 
The  world  is  to  the  meditative  man  what  the  mulberry 
plant  is  to  the  silkworm.  The  essay- writer  has  no  lack 
of  subject-matter.  He  has  the  day  that  is  passing 
over  his  head  ;  and,  if  unsatisfied  with  that,  he  has 
the  world's  six  thousand  years  to  depasture  his  gay  or 
serious  humor  upon.  I  idle  away  my  time  herjj,  and 
I  am  finding  new  subjects  every  hour.  Every  thing  I 
see  or  hear  is  an  essay  in  bud.  The  Avorld  is  every 
where  whispering  essays,  and  one  need  only  be  the 
world's  amanuensis.  The  proverbial  expression  which 
last  evening  the  clown  dropped  as  he  trudged  home- 
ward to  supper,  the  light  of  the  setting  sun  on  his  face, 
expands  before  me  to  a  dozen  pages.  The  coffin  of 
the  pauper,  which  to-day  I  saw  carried  carelessly  along, 
is  as  good  a  subject  as  the  funeral  procession  of  an 
emperor.  Craped  drum  and  banner  add  nothing  to 
death ;  penury  and  disrespect  take  nothing  away. 
Incontinently  my  thought  moves  like  a  slow-paced 
hearse  with  sable  nodding  plumes.  Two  rustic  lovers, 
whispering  between  the  darkening  hedges,  is  as  potent 
to  project  my  mind  into  the  tender  passion  as  if  I  had 
seen  Romeo  touch  the  cheek  of  Juliet  in  the  moon- 
light garden.  Seeing  a  curly-headed  child  asleep  in  the 
sunshine  before  a  cottage-door  is  sufficient  excuse  for 
3 


34         On  the  Writing  of  Easays. 

a  discourse  on  childhood  ;  quite  as  good  as  if  I  had 
seen  infant  Cain  asleep  in  the  lap  of  Eve  with  Adam 
looking  on.  A  lark  cannot  rise  to  heaven  without 
raising  as  many  thoughts  as  there  are  notes  in  its  song. 
Dawn  cannot  pour  its  white  light  on  my  village  with- 
out starting  from  their  dim  lair  a  hundred  reminis- 
cences ;  nor  can  sunset  burn  above  yonder  trees 
in  the  west  without  attracting  to  itself  the  melan- 
choly of  a  lifetime.  AVhen  spring  unfolds  her  green 
leaves  I  would  be  provoked  to  indite  an  essay  on 
hop^  and  youth,  were  it  not  that  it  is  already  writ  in 
the  carols  of  the  birds  ;  and  I  might  be  tempted  in 
autumn  to  improve  the  occasion,  were  it  not  for  the 
rustle  of  the  withered  leaves  as  I  walk  through  the 
woods.  Compared  with  that  simple  music,  the  sad- 
dest-cadenced  words  have  but  a  shallow  meaning. 

The  essayist  who  feeds  his  thoughts  upon  the  seg- 
ment of  the  world  which  surrounds  him  cannot  avoid 
being  an  egotist ;  but  then  his  egotism  is  not  unpleas- 
ing.  If  he  be  without  taint  of  boastfulness,  of  self- 
sufficiency,  of  hungry  vanity,  the  world  will  not  press 
the  charge  home.  If  a  man  discourses  continually  of 
his  wines,  his  plate,  his  titled  acquaintances,  the  num- 
ber and  quality  of  his  horses,  his  men-servants  and 
maid-servants,  he  must  discourse  very  skilfully  indeed 
if  he  escapes  being  called  a  coxcomb.  If  a  man 
speaks  of  death  —  tells  you  that  the  idea  of  it  con- 
tinually haunts  him,  that  he  has  the  most  insatiable 
curiosity  as  to  death    and    dying,    that   his    thought 


On  the   Writing  of  Essays.        35 

mines  in  churchyards  like  a  "  demon-mole  "  —  no  one 
is  specially  offended,  and  that  this  is  a  dull  feUow  is 
the  hardest  thing  likely  to  be  said  of  him.  Only,  the 
egotism  that  over-crows  you  is  offensive,  that  exalts 
trifles  and  takes  pleasure  in  them,  that  suggests  supe- 
riority in  matters  of  equipage  and  furniture  ;  and  the 
egotism  is  offensive,  because  it  runs  counter  to  and 
jostles  your  self-complacency.  The  egotism  which 
rises  no  higher  than  the  grave  is  of  a  solitary  and  a 
hermit  kind  —  it  crosses  no  man's  path,  it  disturbs 
no  man's  amour  propre.  You  may  offend  a  man 
if  you  say  you  are  as  rich  as  he,  as  wise  as  he,  as 
handsome  as  he.  You  offend  no  man  if  you  tell  him 
that,  like  him,  you  have  to  die.  The  king,  in  his 
crown  and  coronation  robes,  will  allow  the  beggar  to 
claim  that  relationship  with  him.  To  have  to  die  is  a 
distinction  of  which  no  man  is  proud.  The  speaking 
about  one's  self  is  not  necessarily  offensive.  A  modest, 
truthful  man  speaks  better  about  himself  than  about 
any  thing  else,  and  on  that  subject  his  speech  is  likely 
to  be  most  profitable  to  his  hearers.  Certainly,  there 
is  no  subject  with  which  he  is  better  acquainted,  and 
on  which  he  has  a  better  title  to  be  heard.  And  it  is 
this  egotism,  this  perpetual  reference  to  self,  in  which 
the  charm  of  the  essayist  resides.  If  a  man  is  worth 
knowing  at  aU,  he  is  worth  knowing  well.  The  essayist 
gives  you  his  thoughts,  and  lets  you  know,  in  addition, 
how  he  came  by  them.  lie  has  nothing  to  conceal ; 
he  throws  open  his  doors  and  windows,  and  lets  him 


36         On  the  Writing  of  Essai/s. 

enter  who  will.  You  like  to  walk  round  peculiar  or 
important  men  as  you  like  to  walk  round  a  build- 
ing, to  view  it  from  different  points,  and  in  different 
lights.  Of  the  essayist,  when  his  mood  is  communi- 
cative, you  obtain  a  full  picture.  You  are  made  his 
contemporary  and  familiar  friend.  You  enter  into 
his  humors  and  his  seriousness.  You  are  made  heir 
of  his  whims,  prejudices,  and  playfulness.  You  walk 
through  the  whole  nature  of  him,  as  you  walk  through 
the  streets  of  Pompeii,  looking  into  the  interior  of 
stately  mansions,  reading  the  satirical  scribblings  on 
the  walls.  And  the  essayist's  habit  of  not  only  giving 
you  his  thoughts,  but  telling  you  how  he  came  by 
them,  is  interesting,  because  it  shows  you  by  what 
alchemy  the  ruder  world  becomes  transmuted  into  the 
finer.  We  like  to  know  the  lineage  of  ideas,  just  as 
we  like  to  know  the  lineage  of  great  earls  and  swift 
race-horses.  We  like  to  know  that  the  discovery  of 
the  law  of  gravitation  was  born  of  the  fall  of  an 
apple  in  an  English  garden  on. a  summer  afternoon. 
Essays  written  after  this  fashion  are  racy  of  the  soil 
in  which  they  grow,  as  you  taste  the  lava  in  the  vines 
gi-own  on  the  slopes  of  Etna,  they  say.  There  is  a 
healthy  Gascon  flavor  in  Montaigne's  Essays  :  and 
Charles  Lamb's  are  scented  with  the  primroses  of 
Covent  Garden. 

The  essayist  does  not  usually  appear  early  in  the 
literary  history  of  a  country  :  he  comes  naturally  after 
the  poet  and  the  chronicler.     His  habit  of  mind  is 


On  the  Writing  of  Essays.        37 

leisurely ;  he  does  not  ^^Tite  from  any  special  stress  of 
passionate  impulse ;  he  does  not  create  material  so 
much  as  he  comments  upon  material  already  existing. 
It  is  essential  for  him  that  books  should  have  been 
written,  and  that  they  should,  at  least  to  some  extent, 
have  been  read  and  digested.  He  is  usually  full  of 
allusions  and  references,  and  these  his  reader  must  be 
able  to  follow  and  understand.  And  in  this  literary 
walk,  as  in  most  others,  the  giants  came  first :  Mon- 
taigne and  Lord  Bacon  were  our  earliest  essayists, 
and,  as  yet,  they  are  our  best.  In  point  of  style, 
these  essays  are  different  from  any  thing  that  could  now 
be  produced.  Not  only  is  the  thinking  different  —  the 
manner  of  setting  forth  the  thinking  is  different  also. 
We  despair  of  reaching  the  thought,  we  despair  equally 
of  reaching  the  langiage.  We  can  no  more  bring 
back  their  turns  of  sentence  than  we  can  bring  back 
their  tournaments.  Montaigne,  in  his  serious  moods, 
has  a  curiously  rich  and  intricate  eloquence  ;  and 
Bacon's  sentence  bends  beneath  the  weight  of  his 
thought,  like  a  branch  beneath  the  weight  of  its  fruit. 
Bacon  seems  to  have  written  his  essays  with  Shak- 
speare's  pen.  There  is  a  certain  want  of  ease  about 
the  old  writers  which  has  an  irresistible  charm.  The 
language  flows  like  a  stream  over  a  pebbled  bed,  with 
propulsion,  eddy,  and  sweet  recoil — the  pebbles,  if  re- 
tarding movement,  giving  ring  and  dimple  to  the  sur- 
face, and  breaking  the  whole  into  babbling  music. 
There  is  a  ceremoniousness  in  the  mental  habits  of 


38         On  the  Writing  of  Essays. 

these  ancients.  Their  intellectual  garniture  is  pic- 
turesque, like  the  garniture  of  their  bodies.  Their 
thoughts  are  courtly  and  high  mannered.  A  singular 
analoj;)'  exists  between  the  personal  attire  of  a  period 
and  its  wTitten  style.  The  peaked  beard,  the  starched 
collar,  the  quilted  doublet,  have  their  correspondences 
in  the  high  sentence  and  elaborate  ornament  (worked 
upon  the  thought  like  figures  upon  tapestry)  of  Sidney 
and  Spencer.  In  Pope's  day  men  wore  rapiers,  and 
their  weapons  they  carried  Avith  them  into  literature, 
and  frequently  unsheathed  them  too.  They  knew  how 
to  stab  to  the  heart  w  ith  an  epigram.  Stylo  went  out 
with  the  men  who  Avore  knee-breeches  and  buckles  in 
their  shoes.  We  write  more  easily  now  ;  but  in  our 
easy  wTiting  there  is  ever  a  taint  of  flippancy :  our 
•writing  is  to  theirs,  what  shooting-coat  and  wide-awake 
are  to  doublet  and  plumed  hat. 

Montaigne  and  Bacon  are  our  earliest  and  greatest 
essayists,  and  likeness  and  unlikeness  exist  between 
the  men.  Bacon  was  constitutionally  the  graver 
nature.  He  wTites  like  one  on  whom  presses  the 
weight  of  affairs,  and  he  approaches  a  subject  always 
on  its  serious  side.  He  does  not  play  with  it  fantas- 
tically. He  lives  amongst  great  ideas,  as  with  great 
nobl?8,  with  Avhom  he  dare  not  be  too  familiar.  In 
the  tone  of  his  mind  there  is  ever  something  imperial. 
When  he  writes  on  building,  he  speaks  of  a  palace 
with  spacious  entrances,  and  courts,  and  banqueting- 
haUs  ;  when  he  writes  on  gardens,  he  speaks  of  alleys, 


On  the  Writing  of  Essai/s.        39 

and  mounts,  waste  places  and  fountains,  of  a  garden 
"  which  is  indeed  prince-like."  To  read  over  his  table 
of  contents,  is  like  reading  over  a  roll  of  peers'  names. 
We  have,  taking  them  as  they  stand,  essays  treating 
Of  Great  Place,  Of  Boldness,  Of  Goodness,  and  Good- 
ness of  Nature,  Of  Nobility,  Of  Seditions  and  Troubles, 
Of  Atheism,  Of  Superstition,  Of  Travel,  Of  Empire,  Of 
Counsel,  —  a  book  plainly  to  lie  in  the  closets  of  states- 
men and  princes,  and  designed  to  nurture  the  noblest 
natures.  Bacon  always  seems  to  write  with  his  ermine 
on.  Montaigne  was  different  from  all  this.  His  table 
of  contents  reads,  in  comparison,  like  a  medley,  or  a 
catalogue  of  an  auction.  He  was  quite  as  wise  as 
Bacon ;  he  could  look  through  men  quite  as  clearly, 
and  search  them  quite  as  narrowly ;  certain  of  his 
moods  were  quite  as  serious,  and  in  one  corner  of  his 
heart  he  kept  a  yet  profounder  melancholy ;  but  he 
was  volatile,  a  humorist,  and  a  gossip.  He  could 
be  dignified  enough  on  great  occasions,  but  dignity 
and  great  occasions  bored  him.  He  could  stand  in 
the  presence  with  propriety  enough,  but  then  he  got 
out  of  the  presence  as  rapidly  as  possible.  When,  in 
the  thirty-eighth  year  of  his  age,  he  —  somewhat  world 
weary,  and  with  more  scars  on  his  heart  than  he  cared 
to  discover  —  retired  to  his  chateau,  he  placed  his 
library  "  in  the  great  tower  overlooking  the  entrance 
to  the  court,"  and  over  the  central  rafter  he  inscribed 
in  large  letters  the  device  —  "  I  do  not  understand  ; 
I  pause;  I  EXAMINE."    When  he  began  to  write  his 


40         On  the   Writing  of  Essat/s. 

Essays  he  had  no  great  desire  to  shine  as  an  author ; 
he  wTote  simply  to  relieve  teeming  heart  and  brain. 
The  best  method  to  lay  the  spectres  of  the  mind  is  to 
commit  them  to  paper.  Speaking  of  the  Essays,  he 
says,  "  This  book  has  a  domestic  and  private  object. 
It  is  intended  for  the  use  of  my  relations  and  friends  ; 
so  that,  when  they  have  lost  me,  which  they  will  soon 
do,  they  may  find  in  it  some  features  of  my  condition 
and  humors  ;  and  by  this  means  keep  up  more  com- 
pletely, and  in  a  more  lively  manner,  the  knowledge 
they  have  of  me."  In  his  Essays  he  meant  to  portray 
himself,  his  habits,  his  modes  of  thought,  his  opinions, 
what  fiiiit  of  wisdom  he  had  gathered  from  experience 
sweet  and  bitter  ;  and  the  task  he  has  executed  with 
wonderful  fidelity.  He  does  not  make  himself  a 
hero.  Cromwell  would  have  his  warts  painted  ;  and 
Montaigne  paints  his,  and  paints  them  too  with  a  cer- 
tain fondness.  He  is  perfectly  tolerant  of  himself  and 
of  every  body  else.  Whatever  be  the  subject,  the  writ- 
ing flows  on  easy,  equable,  self-satisfied,  almost  always 
■with  a  personal  anecdote  floating  on  the  surftxce.  Each 
event  of  his  past  life  he  considers  a  fact  of  nature ; 
creditable  or  the  reverse,  there  it  is  ;  sometimes  to  be 
speculated  upon,  not  in  the  least  to  be  regretted.  If 
it  is  worth  nothing  else,  it  may  be  made  the  subject 
of  an  essay,  or,  at  least,  be  useful  as  an  illustration. 
We-  have  not  only  his  thoughts,  we  see  also  how  and 
from  what  they  arose.  When  he  presents  you  with  a 
bouquet,  you  notice  that  the  flowers  have  been  plucked 


On  the  Writing  of  Essays.        41 

• 

up  by  the  roots,  and  to  the  roots  a  portion  of  the  soil 
still  adheres.  On  liis  daily  life  his  Essays  grew  like 
lichens  upon  rocks.  If  a  thing  is  useful  to  him,  he 
is  not  squeamish  as  to  where  he  picks  it  up.  In  his 
eyes  there  is  nothing  common  or  unclean  ;  and  he 
accepts  a  favor  as  willingly  from  a  beggar  as  from  a 
prince.  When  it  serves  his  purpose,  he  quotes  a 
tavern  catch,  or  the  smart  saying  of  a  kitchen  wench, 
with  as  much  relish  as  the  fine  sentiment  of  a  classical 
poet,  or  the  gallant  hon  mot  of  a  king.  Eyery  thing 
is  important  which  relates  to  himself.  That  his 
mustache,  if  stroked  with  his  perfumed  glove,  or 
handkerchief,  wiU  retain  the  odor  a  whole  day,  is 
related  with  as  much  gravity  as  the  loss  of  a  battle, 
or  the  march  of  a  desolating  plague.  Montaigne,  in 
his  grave  passages,  reaches  an  eloquence  intricate  and 
highly  wrought ;  but  then  his  moods  are  Protean,  and 
he  is  constantly  alternating  his  stateliness  with  famil- 
iarity, anecdote,  humor,  coarseness.  His  Essays  are 
like  a  mythological  landscape  —  you  hear  the  pipe  of 
Pan  in  the  distance,  the  naked  goddess  moves  past, 
the  satjT  leers  from  the  thicket.  At  the  core  of  him 
profoundly  melancholy,  and  consumed  by  a  hunger 
for  truth,  he  stands  like .  Prospero  in  the  enchanted 
island,  and  he  has  Ariel  and  Caliban  to  do  his  be- 
hests and  run  his  errands.  Sudden  alternations  are 
very  characteristic  of  him.  Whatever  he  says  sug- 
gests its  opposite.  He  laughs  at  himself  and  his 
reader.     He  buUds  his  castle  of  cards  for  the  mere 


42         On  the  Writing  of  Essays. 

pleasure  of  knocking  it  down  again.  He  is  ever  un- 
expected and  surprising.  And  with  this  curious 
mental  activity,  this  play  and  linked  dance  of  dis- 
cordant elements,  his  page  is  alive  and  restless,  like 
the  constant  flicker  of  light  and  shadow  in  a  mass  of 
foliage  which  the  wind  is  stirring. 

Montaigne  is  avowedly  an  egotist ;  and  by  those 
who  are  inclined  to  make  this  a  matter  of  reproach, 
it  should  be  remembered  that  the  value  of  egotism 
depends  entirely  on  the  egotist.  If  the  egotist  is 
weak,  his  egotism  is  worthless.  If  the  egotist  is 
strong,  acute,  full  of  distinctive  character,  his  egotism 
is  precious,  and  remains  a  possession  of  the  race.  If 
Shakspeare  had  left  personal  revelations,  how  we 
should  value  them ;  if,  indeed,  he  has  not  in  some 
sense  left  them — if  the  tragedies  and  comedies  are 
not  personal  revelations  altogether  —  the  multiform 
nature  of  the  man  rushing  towards  the  sun  at  once  in 
Falstaff",  Hamlet,  and  Romeo.  But  calling  Montaigne 
an  egotist  does  not  go  a  great  way  to  decipher  him. 
No  writer  takes  the  reader  so  much  into  his  con- 
fidence, and  no  one  so  entirely  escapes  the  penalty  of 
confidence.  He  tells  us  every  thing  about  himself,  we 
think  ;  and  when  all  is  told,  it  is  astonishing  how  little 
we  really  know.  The  esplanades  of  Montaigne's 
palace  are  thoroughfares,  men  from  every  European 
country  rub  clothes  there,  but  somewhere  in  the  build- 
ing there  is  a  secret  room  in  which  the  master  sits,  of 
which  no  one  but  himself  wears  the  key.     We  read  in 


On  the    Writi7ig  of  Essay s.       43 

the  Essays  about  his  wife,  his  daughter,  his  daughter's 
governess,  of  his  cook,  of  his  page,  "  who  was  never 
found  guilty  of  telling  the  truth,"  of  his  library,  the 
Gascon  harvest  outside  his  chateau,  his  habits  of  com- 
position, his  favorite  speculations  ;  but  somehow  the 
man  himself  is  constantly  eluding  us.  His  daughter's 
governess,  his  page,  the  ripening  Gascon  fields,  are 
never  introduced  for  their  own  sakes  ;  they  are  em- 
ployed to  illustrate  and  set  off  the  subject  on  which 
he  happens  to  be  writing.  A  brawl  in  his  own  kitchen 
he  does  not  consider  worthy  of  being  specially  set 
down,  but  he  has  seen  and  heard  every  thing  ;  it  comes 
in  his  way  when  travelling  in  some  remote  region,  and 
accordingly  it  finds  a  place.  He  is  the  frankest,  most 
outspoken  of  writers  ;  and  that  very  frankness  and 
outspokenness  puts  the  reader  off  his  guard.  If  you 
wish  to  preserve  your  secret,  wrap  it  up  in  frankness. 
The  Essays  aro  full  of  this  trick.  The  frankness  is  as 
well  simulated  as  the  grape-branches  of  the  Grecian 
artist  which  the  birds  flew  towards  and  pecked.  When 
Montaigne  retreats,  he  does  so  like  a  skilful  general, 
leaving  his  fires  burning.  In  other  ways,  too,  he  is 
an  adept  in  putting  his  reader  out.  He  discourses 
with  the  utmost  gravity,  but  you  suspect  mockery  or 
banter  in  his  tones.  He  is  serious  with  the  most 
trifling  subjects,  and  he  trifles  with  the  most  serious. 
"  He  broods  eternally  over  his  own  thought,"  but 
who  can  tell  what  his  thought  may  be  for  the  nonce  ? 
He  is  of  all  writers  the  most  vagrant,  surprising,  and, 


44        On  the  Writing  of  Essaijs. 

to  many  minds,  illogical.  His  sequences  are  not 
the  sequences  of  other  men.  His  writings  are  as 
full  of  transformations  as  a  pantomime  or  a  fairy  tale. 
His  arid  wastes  lead  up  to  glittering  palaces,  his 
banqueting-halls  end  in  a  dog-hutch.  He  begins  an 
essay  about  trivalities,  and  the  conclusion  is  in  the 
other  world.  And  the  peculiar  character  of  his  writing, 
like  the  peculiar  character  of  all  uTiting  which  is 
worth  any  thing,  arises  from  constitutional  turn  of 
mind.  He  is  constantly  playing  at  fast  and  loose  with 
himself  and  his  reader.  He  mocks  and  scorns  his 
deeper  nature ;  and,  like  Shakspeare  in  Hamlet,  says 
his  deepest  things  in  a  jesting  way.  When  he  is 
gayest,  be  sure  there  is  a  serious  design  in  his  gayety. 
Singularly  shrewd  and  peneti'ating — sad,  not  only  from 
sensibility  of  exquisite  nerve  and  tissue,  but  from 
meditation,  and  an  eye  that  pierced  the  surfaces  of 
things — fond  of  pleasure,  yet  strangely  fascinated  by 
death  —  sceptical,  yet  clinging  to  what  the  Church 
taught  and  believed  —  lazily  possessed  by  a  high  ideal 
of  life,  yet  unable  to  reach  it,  careless  perhaps  often 
to  strive  after  it,  and  with  no  very  high  opinion  of  his 
own  goodness,  or  of  the  goodness  of  his  fellows  — 
and  with  all  these  serious  elements,  an  element  of 
humor  mobile  as  flame,  which  assumed  a  variety  of 
forms,  now  pure  fun,  now  mischievous  banter,  now 
blistering  scorn  —  humor  in  all  its  shapes,  carelessly 
exercised  on  himself  and  his  readers  —  with  all  this 
vaxiety,  complexity,  riot,  and  contradiction  almost  of 


071  the  Writing  of  Essays.         45 

intellectual  forces  within,  Montaigne  wrote  his  bewil- 
dering Essays —  with  the  exception  of  Rabelais,  the 
greatest  modern  Frenchman  —  the  creator  of  a  distinct 
literary  form,  and  to  whom,  down  even  to  our  own 
day,  even  in  point  of  subject-matter,  every  essayist 
has  been  more  or  less  indebted. 

Bacon  is  the  greatest  of  the  serious  and  stately 
essayists,  —  Montaigne  the  greatest  of  the  garrulous 
and  communicative.  The  one  gives  you  his  thoughts 
on  Death,  Travel,  Government,  and  the  like,  and  lets 
you  make  the  best  of  them ;  the  other  gives  you  his 
on  the  same  subjects,  but  he  wraps  them  up  in  per- 
sonal gossip  and  reminiscence.  With  the  last  it  is 
never  Death  or  Travel  alone ;  it  is  always  Death  one- 
fourth,  and  Montaigne  three-fourths  ;  or  Travel  one- 
fourth,  and  Montaigne  three-fourths.  He  pours  his 
thought  into  the  water  of  gossip,  and  gives  you  to 
drink.  He  gilds  his  pill  always,  and  he  always  gilds 
it  with  himself.  The  general  characteristics  of  his 
Essays  have  been  indicated,  and  it  is  worth  while  in- 
quiring what  they  teach,  what  positive  good  they  have 
done,  and  why  for  three  centuries  they  have  charmed, 
and  still  continue  to  charm. 

The  Essays  contain  a  philosophy  of  life,  which  is 
not  specially  high,  yet  which  is  certain  to  find  accept- 
ance more  or  less  with  men  who  have  passed  out 
beyond  the  glow  of  youth,  and  who  have  made  trial  of 
the  actual  world.  The  essence  of  his  philosophy  is  a 
kind  of  cynical  common  sense.     He  will  risk  nothing 


46  On  the  Writing  of  Essay s. 

in  life  ;  he  will  keep  to  the  beaten  track  ;  he  will  not  let 
passion  blind  or  enslave  him ;  he  will  gather  around 
him  what  good  he  can,  and  will  therewith  endeavor 
to  be  content.  He  will  be  as  far  as  possible,  self- 
sustained  ;  he  will  not  risk  his  happiness  in  the  hands 
of  man,  or  of  woman  either.  He,  is  shy  of  friendship, 
he  fears  love,  for  he  knows  that  both  are  dangerous. 
He  knows  that  life  is  full  of  bitters,  and  he  holds  it 
wisdom  that  a  man  should  console  himself,  as  far  as 
possible,  with  its  sweets,  the  principal  of  which  are 
peace,  travel,  leisure,  and  the  WTitiilg  of  essays.  He 
values  obtainable  Gascon  bread  and  cheese  more  than 
the  unobtainable  stars.  He  thinks  crying  for  the  moon 
the  foolishest  thing  in  the  world.  He  will  remain 
where  he  is.  He  will  not  deny  that  a  new  world 
may  exist  beyond  the  sunset,  but  he  knows  that  to 
reach  the  new  world  there  is  a  troublesome  Atlantic 
to  cross  ;  and  he  is  not  in  the  least  certain  that,  put- 
ting aside  the  chance  of  being  drowned  on  the  way, 
he  will  be  one  whit  happier  in  the  new  world  than  he 
is  in  the  old.  For  his  part  he  will  embark  with  no 
Columbus.  He  feels  that  life  is  but  a  sad  thing  at 
best ;  but  as  he  has  little  hope  of  making  it  better,  he 
accepts  it,  and  will  not  make  it  worse  by  murmuring. 
When  the  chain  galls  him,  he  can  at  least  revenge 
himself  by  making  jests  on  it.  He  will  temper  the 
despotism  of  nature  by  epigrams.  He  has  read  ^^sop's 
fable,  and  is  the  last  man  in  the  world  to  relinquish  the 
shabbiest  substance  to  grasp  at  the  finest  shadow. 


On  the  Writing  of  Essays.        47 

Of  nothing  under  the  sun  was  Montaigne  quite  cer- 
tain, except  that  every  man  —  whatever  his  station  — 
might  travel  farther  and  fare  worse  ;  and  that  the 
playing  with  his  own  thoughts,  in  the  shape  of  essay- 
writing,  was  the  most  harmless  of  amusements.  His 
practical  acquiescence  in  things  does  not  promise 
much  fruit,  save  to  himself;  yet  in  virtue  of  it  he 
became  one  of  the  forces  of  the  world  —  a  very  visible 
agent  in  bringing  about  the  Europe  which  surrounds 
us  to-day.  He  lived  in  the  midst  of  the  French 
religious  wars.  The  rulers  of  his  country  were  exe- 
crable Christians,  but  most  orthodox  Catholics.  The 
burning  of  heretics  was  a  public  amusement,  and  the 
court  ladies  sat  out  the  play.  On  the  queen-mother 
and  on  her  miserable  son  lay  aU  the  blood  of  the  St. 
Bartholomew.  The  country  was  torn  asunder  ;  every 
where  was  battle,  murder,  pillage,  and  such  woful 
partings  as  Mr.  Millais  has  represented  in  his  incom- 
parable picture.  To  the  solitary  humorous  essayist 
this  state  of  things  was  hateful.  He  was  a  good 
Catholic  in  his  easy  way  ;  he  attended  divine  service 
regularly ;  he  crossed  himself  when  he  yawned.  He 
conformed  in  practice  to  every  rule  of  the  Church ; 
but  if  orthodox  in  these  matters,  he  was  daring  in 
speculation.  There  was  nothing  he  was  not  bold 
enough  to  question.  He  waged  war  after  his  peculiar 
fashion  with  every  form  of  superstition.  He  worked 
under  the  foundations  of  priestcraft.  But  while  serv- 
ing the  Reformed  cause,  he  had  no  sympathy  with 


48        On  the  Writing  of  Essays. 

Reformers.  If  they  would  but  remain  quiet,  but  keep 
their  peculiar  notions  to  themselves,  France  would 
rest !  That  a  man  should  go  to  the  stake  for  an 
opinion,  was  as  incomprehensible  to  him  as  that  a 
priest  or  king  should  send  him  there  for  an  opinion. 
He  thought  the  persecuted  and  the  persecutors  fools 
about  equally  matched.  He  was  easy-tempered  and 
humane  —  in  the  hunting-field,  he  could  not  bear  the 
cry  of  a  dying  hare  with  composure  — martyr-burning 
had  consequently  no  attraction  for  such  a  man. 
His  scepticism  came  into  play,  his  melancholy 
humor,  his  sense  of  the  illimitable  which  surrounds 
man's  life,  and  which  mocks,  defeats,  flings  back 
his  thought  upon  himself.  Man  is  here,  he  said, 
with  bounded  powers,  with  limited  knowledge,  with 
an  unknown  behind,  an  unknown  in  front,  assured 
of  nothing  but  that  he  was  born,  and  that  he  must 
die ;  why,  then,  in  Heaven's  name  should  he  burn 
his  fellow  for  a  difference  of  opinion  in  the  matter 
of  surplices,  or  as  to  the  proper  fashion  of  conduct- 
ing devotion  ?  Out  of  his  scepticism  and  his  merciful 
disposition  grew,  in  that  fiercely  intolerant  age,  the 
idea  of  toleration,  of  which  he  was  the  apostle. 
Widely  read,  charming  every  one  by  his  wit  and 
wisdom,  his  influence  spread  from  mind  to  mind,  and 
assisted  in  bringing  about  the  change  which  has  taken 
place  in  European  thought.  His  ideas,  perhaps,  did 
not  spring  from  the  highest  sources.  He  was  no 
ascetic,  he  loved  pleasure,  he   was   tolerant  of  every 


On  the  Writing  of  Essai/s.         49 

thing  except  cruelty  ;  but  on  that  account  we  should 
not  grudge  him  his  meed.  It  is  in  this  indirect  way 
that  great  writers  take  their  place  among  the  forces  of 
the  world.  In  the  long  ran,  genius  and  wit  side  with 
the  right  cause.  And  the  m  m  fighting  against  wrong 
to-day  is  assisted,  in  a  greater  degree  than  perhaps  he 
is  himself  aware,  by  the  sarcasm  of  this  writer,  the 
metaphor  of  that,  the  song  of  the  other,  although 
the  wTitcrs  themselves  professed  indifference,  or  were 
even  counted  as  belonging  to  the  enemy. 

Montaigne's  hold  on  his  readers  arises  from  many 
causes.  There  is  his  frank  and  curious  self-deline- 
ation ;  that  interests,  because  it  is  the  revelation  of 
a  very  peculiar  nature.  Then  there  is  the  positive 
value  of  separate  thoughts  imbedded  in  his  strange 
whimsicality  and  humor.  Lastly,  there  is  the  peren- 
nial charm  of  style,  which  is  never  a  separate  quality, 
but  rather  the  amalgam  and  issue  of  all  the  mental 
and  moral  qualities  in  a  man's  possession,  and  which 
bears  the  same  relation  to  these  that  light  bears  to 
the  mingled  elements  that  make  up  the  orb  of  the 
sun.  And  style,  after  all,  rather  than  thought,  is 
the  immortal  thing  in  literature.  In  literature,  the 
charm  of  style  is  indefinable,  yet  all-subduing,  just  as 
fine  manners  are  in  social  life.  In  reality,  it  is  not  of 
so  much  consequence  what  you  say,  as  how  you  say 
it.  Memorable  sentences  are  memorable  on  account 
of  some  single  irradiating  word.  "  But  Shadwell  never 
deviates  into  sense,  for  instance."  Young  Roscius,  in  his 
4 


50  On  the  Writing  of  Essa?/s. 

provincial  barn,  will  repeat  you  the  great  soliloquy  of 
Hamlet,  and  although  every  word  may  be  given  with 
tolerable  correctness,  you  find  it  just  as  commonplace 
as  himself;  the  great  actor  speaks  it,  and  you  "read 
Shakspeare  as  by  a  flash  of  lightning."  And  it  is  in 
Montaigne's  style,  in  the  strange  freaks  and  turnings 
of  his  thought,  his  constant  surprises,  his  curious 
alternations  of  humor  and  melancholy,  his  careless, 
familiar  form  of  address,  and  the  grace  with  which 
every  thing  is  done,  that  his  charm  lies,  and  which 
makes  the  hundredth  perusal  of  him  as  pleasant  as 
the  first. 

And  on  style  depends  the  success  of  the  essayist. 
Montaigne  said  the  most  familiar  things  in  the  finest 
way.  Goldsmith  could  not  be  termed  a  thinker  ;  but 
every  thing  he  touched  he  brightened,  as  after  a  month 
of  dry  weather,  the  shower  brightens  the  dusty  shrub- 
bery of  a  suburban  villa.  The  world  is  not  so  much 
in  need  of  new  thoughts  as  that  when  thought  grows 
old  and  worn  with  usage  it  should,  like  current  coin, 
be  called  in,  and  from  the  mint  of  genius,  reissued 
fresh  and  new.  Love  is  an  old  story  enough,  but  in 
every  generation  it  is  re-born,  in  the  downcast  eyes 
and  blushes  of  young  maidens.  And  so,  although  he 
fluttered  in  Eden,  Cupid  is  young  to-day.  If  Mon- 
taigne hbd  lived  in  Drcamthorp,  as  I  am  now  living, 
had  he  written  essays  as  I  am  now  writing  them,  his 
English  Essays  would  have  been  as  good  as  his 
Gascon  ones.      Looking  on,  the  country  cart  would 


On  the  Writing  of  Essays.        51 

not  for,  nothing  have  passed  him  on  the  road  to 
market,  the  setting  sun  would  be  arrested  in  its 
splendid  colors,  the  idle  chimes  of  the  church  would 
be  translated  into  a  thoughtful  music.  As  it  is,  the 
village  life  goes  on,  and  there  is  no  result.  My 
sentences  are  not  much  more  brilliant  than  the 
speeches  of  the  clowns ;  in  my  book  there  is  little 
more  life  than  there  is  in  the  market-place  on  the 
days  when  there  is  no  market. 


OF  DEATH  AND  THE  FEAR  OF  DYING. 

LET  me  curiously  analyze  eternal  farewells,  and  the 
last  pressures  of  loving  hands.  Let  me  smile 
at  faces  bevvept,  and  the  nodding  plumes  and  slow 
paces  of  funerals.  Let  me  write  down  brave  heroical 
sentences  —  sentences  that  d  'fy  death,  as  brazen 
Goliath    did    the    hosts    of  Israel. 

"  When  death  waits  for  us  is  uncertain ;  let  us 
every  where  look  for  him.  The  premeditation  of 
death  is  the  premeditation  of  liberty  ;  who  has  learnt 
to  die,  has  forgot  to  serve.  There  is  nothing  of  evil 
in  life  for  him  who  rightly  comprehends  that  death  is 
no  evil ;  to  know  how  to  die  delivers  us  from  all  sub- 
jection and  constraint.  Paulus  jEmilius  answered 
him  whom  the  miserable  king  of  Macedon,  his  prisoner, 
sent  to  entreat  him  that  he  would  not  lead  him  in  his 
triumph,  '  Let  him  make  that  request  to  himself.''  In 
truth,  in  all  things,  if  nature  do  not  help  a  little,  it  is 
very  hard  for  art  and  industry  to  perform  any  thing  to 
purpose.  I  am,  in  my  own  nature,  not  melancholy, 
but  thoughtful  ;  and  there  is  nothing  I  have  more 
continually  entertained  myself  withal  than  the  imagi- 

(52) 


Death   and  Dying.  63 

nations  of  death,  even  in  the  gayest  and  most  wanton 
time  of  my  age.  In  the  company  of  ladies,  and  in 
the  height  of  mirth,  some  have  perhaps  thought  me 
possessed  of  some  jealousy,  or  meditating  upon  the 
uncertainty  of  some  imagined  hope,  whilst  I  was  en- 
tertaining myself  with  the  remembrance  of  some  one 
surprised  a  few  days  before  with  a  burning  fever,  of 
which  he  died,  returning  from  an  entertainment  like 
this,  with  his  head  fuU  of  idle  fancies  of  love  and 
jollity,  as  mine  was  then  ;  and  for  aught  I  knew,  the 
same  destiny  was  attending  me.  Yet  did  not  this 
thought  wrinkle  my  forehead  any  more  than  any 
other."  .  .  .  .  "  Why  dost  thou  fear  this  last  day  ? 
It  contributes  no  more  to  thy  destruction  than  every 
one  of  the  rest.  The  last  step  is  not  the  cause  of 
lassitude,  it  does  but  confer  it.  Every  day  travels  / 
toward  death  ;  the  last  only  arrives  at  it.  These  are 
the  good  lessons  ogr  mother  nature  teaches.  I  have 
often  considered  with  myself  whence  it  should  pro- 
ceed, that  in  war  the  image  of  death  —  whether  we 
look  upon  it  as  to  our  own  particular  danger,  or  that 
of  another  —  should,  without  comparison,  appear  less 
dreadful  than  at  home  in  our  own  houses,  (for  if  it 
were  not  so,  it  would  be  an  army  of  whining  milk- 
sops,) and  that  being  stiU  in  all  places  the  same, 
there  should  be,  notwithstanding,  much  more  assur- 
ance in  peasants  and  the  meaner  sort  of  people,  than 
others  of  better  quality  and  eJucation  ;  and  I  do 
verily  believe,  that  it  is  those  terrible  ceremonies  and 


54  Death  and  Dying. 

preparations  wherewitli  we  set  it  out,  that  more  terrify 
us  than  the  thing  itself;  a  new,  quite  contrary  way  of 
living,  the  cries  of  mothers,  wives,  and  children,  the 
visits  of  astonished  "and  affected  friends,  the  attend- 
ance of  pale  and  blubbered  servants,  a  dark  room  sjt 
round  with  burning  tapers,  our  beds  environed  with 
physicians  and  divines  ;  in  fine,  nothing  but  ghostli- 
ness  and  horror  round  about  us,  render  it  so  formi- 
dable, that  a  man  almost  fancies  himself  dead  and 
buried  already.  Children  are  afraid  even  of  those 
they  love  best,  and  are  host  acquainted  with,  when 
.disguised  in  a  visor,  and  so  are  we ;  the  visor  must 
be  removed  as  well  from  things  as  persons  ;  which 
being  taken  away,  we  shall  fkid  nothing  underneath 
but  the  very  same  death  that  a  mean  servant,  or  a 
poor  chambermaid,  died  a  day  or  two  ago,  without 
any  manner  of  apprehension  or  concern."  '^ 

"  Men  feare  death  as  children  feare  to  goe  in  the 
darke ;  and  as  that  natural  feare  in  children  is  in- 
creased with  tales,  so  in  the  other.  Certainly  the  con- 
templation of  death  as  the  tvages  of  sinne,  and  passage 
to  another  world,  is  holy  and  religious  ;  but  the  feare 
of  it  as  a  tribute  due  unto  nature,  is  weake.  Yet  in 
religious  meditations  there  is  sometimes  mixture  of 
vanitie  and  of  superstition.  You  shal  reade  in  some 
of  the  friars'  books  of  mortification,  that  a  man  should 
thinke  unto  himself  what  the  paine  is  if  he  have  but 
his  finger-end  pressed  or  tortured ;  and  thereby  im- 

*  Montaigne. 


Death   and  Dying.  56 

agine  what  the  paines  of  death  are  when  the  whole 
body  is  corrupted  and  dissolved ;  when  many  times 
death  passeth  with  lesse  paine  than  the  torture  of  a 
Lemme.  For  the  most  vitall  parts  are  not  the  quickest 
of  sense.  Groanes  and  convulsions,  and  a  discoloured 
face,  and  friends  Aveeping,  and  blackes  and  obsequies, 
and  the  like,  shew  death  terrible.  It  is  worthy  the 
observing,  that  there  is  no  passion  in  the  minde  of 
man  so  weake  but  it  mates  and  masters  the  feare  of 
death ;  and  therefore  death  is  no  such  terrible  enemy 
when  a  man  hath  so  many  attendants  about  him  that 
can  winne  the  combat  of  him.  Revenge  triumphs  over 
death,  love  subjects  it,  honour  aspireth  to  it,  griefe 
fleeth  to  it,  feare  preoccupieth  it ;  nay,  Ave  read,  after 
Otho  the  emperour  had  slaine  himselfe,  jntty,  (which 
is  the  tenderest  of  affecti.ms,)  provoked  many  to  die, 
out  of  meer  compassion  to  their  soveraigne,  and  as  the 

truest  sort  of  followers It  is  as  naturall  to  die 

as  to  be  borne  ;  and  to  a  little  infant,  perhaps,  the 
one  is  as  painfull  as  the  other.  He  that  dies  in  an 
earnest  pursuit  is  like  one  that  is  wounded  in  hot 
blood,  who  for  the  time  scarce  feels  the  hurt ;  and, 
therefore,  a  minde  fixt  and  bent  upon  somewhat  that 
is  good,  doth  avert  the  sadness  of  death.  But  above 
all,  believe  it,  the  sweetest  canticle  is.  Nunc  Dimittis, 
when  a  man  hath  obtained  worthy  ends  and  expecta- 
tions. Death  hath  this  also ;  that  it  openeth  the 
gate  to  good  fame,  and  extinguisheth  envie."  * 

*  Bacon. 


56  Death   and  Dyimj. 

These  sentences  of  the  great  essayists  are  brave 
and  inefTcctual  as  Leonid  ;s  and  his  Greeks.  Death 
cares  very  little  for  sarcasm  or  trope  ;  hurl  at  him  a 
javelin  or  a  rose,  it  is  all  one.  We  build  around 
ourselves  ramparts  of  stoical  maxims,  edifying  to  wit- 
ness, but  when  the  terror  comes  these  yield  as  the 
knots  of  river  flags  to  the  shoulder  of  Behemoth. 

Death  is  terrible  only  in  presence.  When  distant, 
or  supposed  to  be  distant,  we  can  call  him  hard  or  ten- 
der names,  nay,  even  poke  our  poor  fun  at  him.  Mr. 
Punch,  on  one  occasion,  when  he  wished  to  ridicule 
the  useful-information  leanings  of  a  certain  periodical 
publication,  qxioted  from  its  pages  the  sentence,  "  Man 
is  mortal,"  and  people  were  found  to  grin  broadly  over 
the  exquisite  stroke  of  humor.  Certainly  the  words, 
and  the  fact  they  contain,  are  trite  enough.  Utter 
the  sentence  gravely  in  any  company,  and  you  are 
certain  to  provoke  laughter.  And  yet  some  subtle  rec- 
ognition of  the  fact  of  death  runs  constantly  through 
the  warp  and  woof  of  the  most  ordinary  human  exist- 
ence. And  this  recognition  does  not  always  terrify. 
The  spectre  has  the  most  cunning  disguises,  and  often 
when  near  us  we  are  unaware  of  the  fact  of  prox- 
imity. Unsuspected,  this  idea  of  death  lurks  in  the 
sweetness  of  music ;  it  has  something  to  do  with  the 
pleasure  with  which  we  behold  the  vapors  of  morning ; 
it  comes  between  the  passionate  lips  of  lovers  ;  it 
lives  in  the  thrill  of  kisses.  "  An  inch  deeper,  and 
you  will  find  the    emperor."     Probe   joy    to  its  last 


Death   and  ^ Dying.  57 

fibre,  and  you  will  find  death.  And  it  is  the  most 
merciful  of  all  the  merciful  provisions  of  nature,  that 
a  haunting  sense  of  insecurity  should  deepen  the  en- 
joyment of  what  we  have  secured ;  that  the  pleasure 
of  our  warm  human  day  and  its  activities  should  to 
some  extent  arise  from  a  vague  consciousness  of  the 
waste  night  which  environs  it,  in  which  no  arm  is 
raised,  in  which  no  voice  is  ever  heard.  Death  is 
the  ugly  fact  which  nature  has  to  hide,  and  she 
hides  it  well.  Human  life  were  otherwise  an  im- 
possibility. The  pantomime  runs  on  merrily  enough  ; 
but  when  once  Harlequin  lifts  his  visor.  Columbine 
disappears,  the  jest  is  frozen  on  the  Clown's  lips, 
and  the  hand  of  the  filching  Pantaloon  is  arrested 
in  the  act.  Wherever  death  looks,  there  is  silence 
and  trembling.  But  although  on  every  man  he  will 
one  day  or  another  look,  he  is  coy  of  revealing 
himself  till  the  appointed  time.  He  makes  his  ap- 
proaches like  an  Indian  warrior,  under  covers  and 
ambushes.  We  have  our  parts  to  play,  and  he  re- 
mains hooded  tiU  they  are  played  out.  We  are  agi- 
tated by  our  passions,  we  busily  pursue  our  ambitions, 
we  are  acquiring  money  or  reputation,  and  all  at  once, 
in  the  centre  of  our  desires,  we  discover  the  "  Shadow 
feared  of  man."  And  so  nature  fools  the  poor  human 
mortal  evermore.  When  she  means  to  be  deadly,  she 
dresses  her  face  in  smiles ;  when  she  selects  a  victim, 
she  sends  him  a  poisoned  rose.  There  is  no  pleasure, . 
no  shape  of  good  fortune,  no  form  of  glory  in  which 


58  Death   and  Dying. 

death  has  not  hid  himself,  and  waited  silently  for  his 
prey. 

And  death  is  the  most  ordinary  thing  in  the  world. 
It  is  as  common  as  births ;  it  is  of  more  frequent 
occurrence  than  marriages  and  the  attainment  of  ma- 
jorities. But  the  difference  between  death  and  other 
forms  of  human  experience  lies  in  this,  that  we  can 
gain  no  information  about  it.  The  dead  man  is  wise, 
but  he  is  silent.  We  cannot  wring  his  secret  from 
him.  We  cannot  interpret  the  ineffable  calm  which 
gathers  on  the  rigid  face.  As  a  consequence,  when 
our  thought  rests  on  death  we  are  smitten  with  isola- 
tion and  loneliness.  We  are  without  company  en  the 
dark  road ;  and  we  have  advanced  so  far  upon  it  that 
we  cannot  hear  the  voices  of  our  friends.  It  is  in 
this  sense  of  loneliness,  this  consciousness  of  identity 
and  nothing  more,  that  the  terror  of  dying  consists. 
And  yet,  compared  to  that  road,  the  most  populous 
thoroughfare  of  London  or  Pekin  is  a  desert.  What 
enumerator  will  take  for  us  the  census  of  the  dead  ? 
And  this  matter  of  death  and  dying,  like  most  things 
else  in  the  world,  may  be  exaggerated  by  our  own 
fears  and  hopes.  Death,  terrible  to  look  forward  to, 
may  be  pleasant  even  to  look  back  at.  Could  we  be  ad- 
,  mitted  to  the  happy  fields,  and  hear  the  conversations 
/  which  blessed  spirits  hold,  one  might  discover  that  to 
conquer  death  a  man  has  but  to  die ;  that  by  that  act 
^terror  is  softened  into  familiarity,  and  that  the  remem- 
brance of  death  becomes  but  as  the  remembrance  of 


Death   and  Dying.  59 

f 

yesterday.  To  these  fortunate  ones  death  may  be 
but  a  date,  and  dying  a  subject  fruitful  in  com- 
parisons, a  matter  on  which  experiences  may  be 
serenely  compared.  Meantime,  however,  we  have 
not  yet  reached  that  measureless  content,  and  death 
scares,  piques,  tantalizes,  as  mind  and  nerve  are  built. 
Situated  as  we  are,  knowing  that  it  is  inevitable,  we 
cannot  keep  our  thoughts  from  resting  on  it  curiously, 
at  times.  Nothing  interests  us  so  much.  The  High- 
land seer  pretended  that  he  could  see  the  winding- 
sheet  high  upon  the  breast  of  the  man  for  whom  death 
was  waiting.  Could  we  behold  any  such  visible  sign, 
the  man  who  bore  it,  no  matter  where  he  stood — even 
if  he  were  a  slave  watching  Caesar  pass  —  would  usurp 
every  eye.  At  the  coronation  of  a  king,  the  wearing 
of  that  order  would  dim  royal  robe,  quench  the  sparkle 
of  the  diadem,  and  turn  to  vanity  the  herald's  cry. 
Death  makes  the  meanest  beggar  august,  and  that 
augustness  would  assert  itself  in  the  presence  of  a 
king.  And  it  is  this  curiosity  with  regard  to  every 
thing  related  to  death  and  dying  which  makes  us  treas- 
ure up  the  last  sayings  of  great  men,  and  attempt  to 
wring  out  of  them  tangible  meanings.  Was  Goethe's 
"  Light  —  light,  more  light !  "  a  prayer,  or  a  statement 
of  spiritual  experience,  or  simply  an  utterance  of  the 
fact  that  the  room  in  which  he  lay  was  filling  with  the 
last  twilight  ?  In  consonance  with  our  own  natures, 
we  interpret  it  the  one  way  or  the  other — he  is  beyond 
our  questioning.      For  the  same  reason  it  is  that  men 


60  Death  and  Dying. 

take  interest  in  executions  —  from  Charles  I.  on  the 
scaffold  at  Whitehall,  to  Portcous  in  the  Grassmarket, 
execrated  by  the  mob.  These  men  are  not  dulled  by 
disease,  they  are  not  delirious  with  fever  ;  they  look 
death  in  the  face,  and  what  in  these  circumstances 
they  say  and  do  has  the  strangest  fascination  for  us. 

What  does  the  murderer  think  when  his  eyes  are 
forever  blinded  by  the  accursed  nightcap  ?  In  what 
form  did  thought  condense  itself  between  the  gleam 
of  the  lifted  axe  and  the  rolling  of  King  Charles's 
head  in  the  saw-dust  ?  This  kind  of  speculation  may 
be  morbid,  but  it  is  not  necessarily  so.  All  extremes 
of  human  experience  touch  us ;  and  we  have  all  the 
deepest  personal  interest  in  the  experience  of  death. 
Out  of  all  we  know  about  dying  we  strive  to  clutch 
something  which  may  break  its  solitariness,  and  re- 
lieve us  by  a  touch  of  companionship. 

To  denude  death  of  its  terrible  associations  were  a 
vain  attempt.  The  atmosphere  is  alwaj's  cold  around 
an  iceberg.  In  the  contemplation  of  dying  the  spirit 
may  not  flinch,  but  pulse  and  heart,  color  and  artic- 
ulation, are  always  cowards.  No  philosophy  will 
teach  them  bravery  in  the  stern  presence.  And  yet 
there  are  considerations  which  rob  death  of  its  ghast- 
liness,  and  help  to  reconcile  us  to  it.  The  thought- 
ful happiness,  of  a  human  being  is  complex,  and 
in  certain  moved  moments,  which,  after  they  have 
gone,  we  can  recognize  to  have  been  our  happiest, 
some  subtle  thought  of  death  has  been  curiously  in- 


Death  and  Dying.  61 

termixed.  And  this  subtle  intermixture  it  is  which 
gives  the  happy  moment  its  chai-acter — which  makes 
the  difference  between  the  gladness  of  a  cliild,  resi- 
dent in  more  animal  health  and  impulse,  and  too 
volatile  to  be  ramcmbered,  and  the  serious  joy  of  a 
man,  which  looks  before  and  after,  and  takes  in  both 
this  world  and  the  next.  Speaking  broadly,  it  may 
be  said  that  it  is  from  some  obscure  recognition  of 
the  fact  of  de  ith  that  life  draws  its  final  sweetiiess. 
An  obscure,  haunting  recognition,  of  course  ;  for  if 
more  than  that,  if  the  thought  becomes  palpable, 
defined,  and  present,  it  swallows  up  every  thing.  The 
howling  of  the  winter  wind  outside  increases  the  warm 
satisfaction  of  a  man  in  bed ;  but  this  satisfaction  is 
succeeded  by  quite  another  feeling  when  the  wind 
grows  into  a  tempest,  and  threatens  to  blow  the  house 
down.  And  this  remote  recognition  of  death  may 
exist  almost  constantly  in  a  man's  mind,  and  give  to 
his  life  keener  zest  and  relish.  His  lights  may  burn 
the  brighter  for  it,  and  his  wines  taste  sweeter.  For 
it  is  on  the  tapestry  of  a  dim  ground  that  the  figures 
come  out  in  the  boldest  relief  and  the  brightest  color. 
If  we  were  to  live  here  always,  with  no  other  care 
than  how  to  feed,  clothe,  and  house  ourselves,  life 
would  be  a  very  sorry  business.  It  is  immeasurably 
heightened  by  the  solemnity  of  death.  The  brwtcs 
die  even  as  we  ;  but  it  is  our  knowledge  that  we  have 
to  die  which  makes  us  human.  If  nature  cunningly 
hides  death,  and  so  permits  us  to  play  out  our  little 


62  Death  and  Dying. 

games,  it  is  easily  seen  that  our  knowing  it  to  be  in- 
evitable, that  to  every  on?  of  us  it  will  come  one  day 
or  another,  is  a  wonderful  spur  to  action.  We  really  do 
work  while  it  is  called  to-day,  because  the  night  comcjih 
when  no  man  can  work.  We  may  not  expect  it  soon 
—  it  may  not  have  sent  us  a  single  avant-courier — yet 
we  all  know  that  every  day  brings  it  nearer.  On  the 
supposition  that  we  were  to  live  here  always,  there 
^wx)uld  be  little  inducement  to  exertion.  But,  having 
some  work  at  heart,  the  knowledge  that  we  may  be, 
any  day,  finally  interrupted,  is  an  incentive  to  dili- 
gence. We  naturally  desire  to  have  it  completed,  or 
at  least  far  advanced  towards  completion,  before  th  t 
final  int3iTuption  takes  place.  And  knowing  that 
his  existence  here  is  limiteJ,  a  man's  workings  have 
reforence  to  others  rathorthan  to  himself,  and  thereby 
into  his  nature  comes  a  new  influx  of  nobility.  If  a 
man  plants  a  treo,  he  knows  that  other  hands  than  his 
will  gather  the  fruit ;  and  when  he  plants  it,  he  thinks 
quite  as  much  of  those  other  hands  as  of  his  own. 
Thus  to  the  poet  there  is  the  dearer  life  after  life  ;  and 
posterity's  single  laurel  leaf  is  valued  more  than  a  multi- 
tud3  of  contemporary  bays.  Even  the  man  immersed 
in  money-making  does  not  make  money  so  much  for 
himself  as  for  tho>e  who  may  come  after  him.  Riches 
in  noble  natures  have  a  double  sweetness.  The  pos- 
sessor enjoys  his  wealth,  and  he  heightens  that  enjoy- 
ment by  an  imaginative  entrance  iito  the  pleasure 
which  his  son  or  liis  nephew  may  derive  from  it  when 


Death  and  Dying.  63 

he  is  away,  or  the  high  uses  to  which  ho  may  turn  it. 
Seein;^  that  we  have  no  perpetual  base  of  life  and  its 
adjuncts,  we  do  not  live  for  ouisolves.  And  thus  it 
is  that  death,  which  we  are  accustomed  to  consider  an 
evil,  really  acts  for  us  the  friendliest  part,  and  takes 
away  the  commonplace  of  existence.  My  life,  and 
your  life,  flowing  on  thus  day  by  day,  is  a  vapid  enough 
piece  of  business ;  but  when  we  think  that  it  must 
dose^  a  multitude  of  considerations,  not  connected  with 
ourselves,  but  with  others,  rush  in,  and  vapidity  vanishes 
at  once.  Lifs,  if  it  were  to  flow  on  forovcr  and  tlms, 
would  stagnate  and  rot.  The  hopes,  and  fears,  and 
regrets,  which  move  and  trouble  it,  keep  it  fresh  and 
healthy,  as  the  sea  is  kept  alive  by  the  trouble  of  its 
tides.  In  a  tolerably  comfort  ible  world,  where  deavh 
is  not,  it  is  difficult  to  see  from  what  quarter  these 
healthful  fears,  regrets,  and  hopes  could  come.  As 
it  is,  there  are  agitations  and  sufferings  in  our  lots 
enough ;  but  we  must  remember  that  it  is  on  account 
of  these  sufferings  and  agitations  that  we  become 
creatures  breathing  thoughtful  breath.  As  has  already 
been  said,  death  takes  away  the  commonplace  of  life. 
And  positively,  when  one  looks  on  the  thousand 
and  one  poor,  foolish,  ignoble  faces  of  this  world, 
and  listens  to  the  chatter  as  poor  and  foolish  as 
the  f  ices,  one,  in  order  to  have  any  proper  respect 
for  them,  is  forced  to  remember  that  solemnity 
of  death,  which  is  silently  waiting.  The  foolishcst 
person  will  look  grand  enough  one  day.     The  features 


64  Death  and  Dying. 

are  poor  now,  but  the  hottest  tears  and  the  most 
passionate  embraces  will  not  seem  out  of  place  then. 
If  you  wish  to  make  a  man  look  nobb,  your  best 
course  is  to  kill  him.  What  superiority  he  may  have 
inherited  from  his  race,  wh  it  superiority  nature  may 
have  personally  gifted  him  with,  comes  out  in  death. 
The  passions  which  agitate,  distort,  and  change,  ara 
gone  away  forever,  and  the  features  settle  back  into 
a  marble  calm,  which  is  the  man's  truest  image.  Then 
the  most  affected  look  sincere,  the  most  volatile  seri- 
ous —  aU  noble,  more  or  less.  And  nature  wiU  not  be 
surprised  into  disclosures.  The  man  stretched  out 
there  may  have  been  voluble  as  a  swallow,  but  now  — 
when  he  could  speak  to  some  purpose  —  neither  p}Ta- 
mid  nor  sphinx  holds  a  secret  more  ten  iciously. 

Consider,  then,  how  the  sense  of  impermanence 
brightens  beauty  and  elevates  happiness.  Melan- 
choly is  always  attendant  on  beauty,  and  that  melan- 
choly  brings  out  its  keenness  as  the  dark-green  cor- 
rugated leaf  brings  out  the  wan  loveliness  of  the 
primrose.  The  spectvtor  enjoys  the  beauty,  but  his 
knowledge  that  it  is  fleeting,  and  that  lie  is  fleeting, 
adds  a  pathetic  something  to  it ;  and  by  that  some- 
thing the  beautiful  object  and  the  gizer  are  alike 
raised. 

Every  thing  is  sweetened  by  risk.  The  pleasant 
emotion  is  mixed  and  deepened  by  a  sense  of  mortality. 
Those  lovers  who  have  never  encountered  the  pos- 
sibility of  last  embraces  and  farewells  are  novices  in 


Death  and  Dying.  65 

the  passion.  Sunset  affects  us  more  powerfully  than 
sunrise,  simply  because  it  is  a  setting  sun,  and  sug- 
gests a  thousand  analogies.  A  mother  is  never  hap- 
pier than  when  her  eyes  fill  over  her  sleeping  child, 
never  does  she  kiss  it  more  fondly,  never  does  she 
pray  for  it  more  fervently  ;  and  yet  there  is  more  in 
her  heart  than  visible  red  cheek  and  yellow  curl ;  pos- 
session and  bereavement  are  strangely  mingled  in  the 
exquisite  maternal  mood,  the  one  heightening  the 
other.  All  great  joys  are  serious  ;  and  emotion  must 
be  measured  by  its  complexity  and  the  deepness  of  its 
reach.  A  musician  may  draw  pretty  notes  enough 
from  a  single  key,  but  the  richest  music  is  that  in 
which  the  whole  force  of  the  instrument  is  employed, 
in  the  production  of  which  every  key  is  vibrating ; 
and,  although  full  of  solemn  touches  and  ihajestic 
tones,  the  final  effect  may  be  exuberant  and  gay. 
Pleasures  which  rise  beyond  the  mere  gratification  of 
the  senses  are  dependent  for  their  exquisiteness  on  the 
number  and  variety  of  the  thoughts  which  they  evoke. 
And  that  joy  is  the  greatest  which,  while  felt  to  be 
joy,  can  include  the  thought  of  death  and  clothe  itself 
with  that  crowning  pathos.  And  in  the  minds  of 
thoughtful  persons  every  joy  does,  more  or  less,  with 
that  crowning  pathos  clothe  itself. 

In  life  there  is  nothing  more  unexpected  and  sur- 
prising than  the  arrivals  and  departures  of  pleasure. 
If  we  find  it  in  one  place  to-day,  it  is  vain  to  seek  it 
there  to-morrow.     You  cannot  lay  a  trap  for  it.     It 
5 


66  Death  and  Dying. 

will  fall  into  no  ambuscade,  concert  it  ever  so  cun- 
ningly. Pleasure  has  no  logic  ;  it  never  treads  in  its 
own  footsteps.  Into  our  commonplace  existence  it 
comes  with  a  surprise,  like  a  pure  white  swan  from 
the  airy  void  into  the  ordinary  village  lake ;  and  just 
as  the  swan,  for  no  reason  that  can  be  discovered,  lifts 
itself  on  its  wings  and  betakes  itself  to  the  void  again, 
it  leaves  us,  and  our  sole  possession  is  its  memory. 
And  it  is  characteristic  of  pleasure  that  we  can  never 
recognize  it  to  be  pleasure  till  after  it  is  gone.  Hap- 
piness never  lays  its  finger  on  its  pulse.  If  we  attempt 
to  steal  a  glimpse  of  its  features  it  disappears.  It  is  a 
gleam  of  unreckoned  gold.  From  the  nature  of  the 
case,  our  happiness,  such  as  in  its  degree  it  has  been, 
lives  in  memory.  We  have  not  the  voice  itself;  we 
have  only  its  echo.  We  are  never  happy  ;  we  can 
only  remember  that  we  were  so  once.  And  while  in 
the  very  heart  and  structure  of  the  happy  moment 
there  lurked  an  obscure  consciousness  of  death,  the 
memory  in  which  past  happiness  dwells  is  always 
a  regretf.il  memory.  This  is  why  the  tritest  utter- 
ance about  the  past,  youth,  early  love,  and  the 
like,  has  always  about  it  an  indefinable  flavor 
of  poetry,  which  pleases  and  afiects.  In  the  wake 
of  a  ship  there  is  always  a  melancholy  splendor. 
The  finest  set  of  verses  of  our  modern  time  de- 
scribes how  the  poet  gazed  on  the  "  happy  autumn 
fields,"  and  remembered  the  "  days  that  were  no 
more."     After   all,    a   man's   real   possession   is   his 


Death  and  Dying.  67 

memory.     In  nothing  else  is  he  rich  ;  in  nothing  else 
is  he  poor. 

In  our  warm  imaginitative  youth,  death  is  far  re- 
moved from  us,  and  attains  thereby  a  certain  pic- 
turesqneness.  The  grim  thought  stands  in  the  ideal 
world  as  a  ruin  stands  in  a  blooming  landscape. 
The  thought  of  death  sheds  a  pathetic  charm  over 
every  thing  then.  The  young  man  cools  himself  with 
a  thought  of  the  winding-sheet  and  the  charnel,  as 
the  heated  dancer  cools  himself  on  the  balcony  with 
the  night-air.  The  young  imagination  plays  with  the 
idea  of  death,  makes  a  toy  of  it,  just  as  a  child  plays 
with  edge-tools  till  once  it  cuts  its  fingers.  The  most 
lugubrious  poetry  is  written  by  very  young  and  tol- 
erably comfortable  persons.  When  a  man's  mood 
becomes  really  serious  he  has  little  taste  for  such 
fool  >ry.  The  man  who  has  a  grave  or  two  in  his 
heart,  does  not  need  to  haunt  church-yards.  The 
young  poet  uses  death  as  an  antithesis ;  and  when  he 
shocks  his  reader  by  some  flippant  use  of  it  in  that 
way,  he  considers  he  has  written  something  mightily 
fine.  In  his  gloomiest  mood  he  is  most  insincere, 
most  egotistical,  most  pretentious.  The  older  and 
wiser  poet  avoids  the  subject  as  he  does  the  memory 
of  pain ;  or  when  he  does  refer  to  it,  he  does  so  in  a 
reverential  manner,  and  with  some  sense  of  its  solem- 
nity and  of  the  magnitude  of  its  issues.  It  was  in 
that  year  of  revelry,  1814,  and  while  undressing  from 
balls,  that  Lord  Byron  wrote  his  "  Lara,"  as  he  informs 


68  Death  and  Dying. 

us.  Disrobing,  and  haunted,  in  all  probability,  by 
eyes  in  whose  light  he  was  happy  enough,  the  spoiled 
young  man,  who  then  affected  death-pallors,  and 
wished  the  world  to  believe  that  he  felt  his  richest 
wines  powdered  with  the  dust  of  graves,  —  of  which 
wine,  notwithstanding,  he  frequently  took  more  than 
was  good  for  him,  —  wTote,  — 

"  That  sleep  the  loveliest,  since  it  dreams  the  least." 

The  sleep  referred  to  being  death.  This  was  meant 
to  take  away  the  reader's  breath ;  and  after  per- 
forming the  feat,  Byron  betook  himself  to  his  pillow 
with  a  sense  of  supreme  cleverness.  Contrast  with 
this  Shakspeare's  far  out-looking  and  thought-heavy 
lines  —  lines  which,  under  the  same  image,  represent 
death,  — 

"  To  die  —  to  sleep  ;  — 
To  sleep  !  perchance  to  dream  ;  —  ay,  there's  the  rub  ; 
For  in  that  sleep  of  death  what  dreams  may  come  !  " 

And  you  see  at  once  how  a  man's  notions  of  death 
and  dying  are  deepened  by  a  wider  experience. 
Middle  age  may  fear  death  quite  as  little  as  youth 
fears  it ;  but  it  has  learned  seriousness,  and  it  has  no 
heart  to  poke  fun  at  the  lean  ribs,  or  to  caU  it  fond 
names  like  a  lover,  or  to  stick  a  primrose  in  its  grin- 
ning chaps,  and  draw  a  strange  pleasure  from  the  irrel- 
evancy. 

The  man  who  has  reached  thirty,  feels  at  times  as 
if  he  had  come  out  of  a  great  battle.     Comrade  after 


Death  and  Dying.  69 

comrade  has  fallen ;  his  OAvn  lif3  soems  to  have  been 
charmed.  And  knowing  how  it  fared  with  his  friends 
—  parfect  health  one  day,  a  catarrh  the  next,  blinds 
drawn  down,  silence  in  the  house,  blubbered  faces  of 
widow  and  orphans,  intimation  of  the  event  in  the 
newspapers,  with  a  request  that  friends  will  accept  of 
it,  the  day  after  —  a  man,  as  he  draws  near  m'dlle 
age,  begins  to  suspect  every  transient  indisposition  ; 
to  be  careful  of  being  caught  in  a  shower,  to  shudder 
at  sitting  in  wet  shoes  ;  he  feels  his  pvdse,  he  anxiously 
peruses  his  face  in  a  miiTor,  he  becomes  critical  as  to 
the  color  of  his  tongue.  In  early  life  illness  is  a 
luxury,  and  draws  out  toward  the  suiFerer  curious  and 
delicious  tendirnessss,  which  are  felt  to  be  a  full 
over-payment  of  pain  and  weakness  f  then  there  is  the 
pleasant  period  of  conv.descence,  when  one  tastes  a 
core  and  marrow  of  delight  in  meats,  drinks,  sleep, 
sUence ;  the  bunch  of  newly-plucked  flowers  on  the 
table,  the  sedulous  attentions  and  patient  forbearance 
of  nurses  and  friends.  Later  in  life,  when  one  occu- 
pies a  post,  and  is  in  discharge  of  duties  which  are 
accumulating  against  recovery,  illness  and  convales- 
cence cease  to  be  luxuries.  Illness  is  felt  to  be 
a  cruel  interruption  of  the  ordinary  course  of  things, 
and  the  sick  person  is  harassed  by  a  sense  of  the 
loss  of  time  and  the  loss  of  strength.  He  is  placed 
hors  de  combat ;  all  the  while  he  is  conscious  that  the 
battle  is  going  on  around  him,  and  he  feels  his  tem- 
porary withdrawal  a  misfortune.     Of  course,  unless  a 


70  Death  and  Dying. 

man  is  very  unhappily  circumstanced,  he  has  in  his 
later  illnesses  all  the  love,  patience,  and  attention 
which  sweetened  his  earlier  ones  ;  but  then  he  cannot 
rest  in  them,  and  accept  them  as  before  as  compen- 
sation in  fidl.  The  world  is  ever  with  him ;  through 
his  interests  and  his  affections  he  has  meshed  himself 
in  an  intricate  net-work  of  relationships  and  other 
dependencies,  and  a  fatal  issue  —  which,  in  such  cases, 
is  ever  on  the  cards  —  would  destroy  all  these,  end 
bring  about  more  serious  mitters  than  the  shedding 
of  tears.  In  a  man's  earli  r  illnesses,  too,  he  had  not 
only  no  such  definite  future  to  work  out,  he  hid  a 
stronger  spring  of  life  and  hope ;  he  was  rich  in  time, 
and  could  wait ;  and  lying  in  his  chamber  now,  he 
cannot  help  remembering  that,  as  Mr.  Thackeray 
expresses  it,  there  comes  at  last  an  illness  to  which 
there  may  be  no  convalescence.  What  if  that  illness 
be  already  come  ?  And  so  there  is  nothing  left  for 
him,  but  to  bear  the  rod  with  patience,  and  to  exer- 
cise a  humble  faith  in  the  Ruler  of  all.  If  he  recovers, 
some  half-dozen  people  will  be  made  happy ;  if  he 
does  not  recover,  the  same  number  of  people  will  be 
made  miserable  for  a  little  while,  and,  during  the  next 
two  or  three  days,  acquaintances  will  meet  in  the 
street  — "  You've  heard  of  poor  So-and-so  ?  Very 
sudden  !     Who  would  have  thought  it  ?     Expect  to 

meet  you  at 's  on  Thursday.     Good-by."     And 

so  the  end.  Your  death  and  my  death  are  mainly  of 
importance  to  ourselves.     The  black  plumes  will  be 


Death   and  Dying.  71 

stripped  off  our  hearses  within  the  hour  ;  tears  will  dry, 
hurt  hearts  clos3  again,  our  graves  grow  level  with 
the  church-yard,  and  although  we  are  away,  the  world 
wags  on.  It  do?s  not  miss  us ;  and  those  who  are 
near  us,  when  the  first  strangeness  of  vacancy  wears 
off,  will  not  miss  us  much  either. 

We  are  curious  as  to  death-beds  and  death-bed 
sayings  ;  we  wish  to  know  how  the  matter  stands ; 
how  the  whole  thing  looks  to  the  dying.  Unhappily 
—  perhaps,  on  the  whole,  h:ippily  —  we  can  gather  no 
information  from  these.  The  dying  are  nearly  as 
reticent  as  the  dead.  The  inferences  we  draw  from 
the  circumstances  of  death,  the  pallor,  the  sob,  the 
glazing  eye,  are  just  as  likely  to  mislead  us  as  not. 
Manfred  exclaims,  "  Old  man,  'tis  not  so  difficult  to 
die  !  "  Sterling  wrot3  Carlyle  "  that  it  was  all  very 
strange,  yet  not  so  strange  as  it  seemed  to  the  lookers 
on."  And  so,  perhaps,  on  the  whole  it  is.  The  world 
has  lasted  six  thousand  years  now,  and,  with  the 
exception  of  those  at  present  alive,  the  millions  who 
have  breathed  upon  it  —  splendid  emperors,  homy- 
fisted  clowns,  littb  children,  in  whom  thought  has 
never  stirred  —  laave  died,  and  what  they  have  done, 
we  also  shall  be  able  to  do.  It  may  not  be  so 
difficult,  may  not  be  so  terrible,  as  our  fears  whisper. 
The  dead  keep  their  socrets,  and  in  a  littb  while  we 
shall  be  as  wise  as  they  —  and  as  taciturn. 


WILLIAM  DUNBAR. 

IF  it  be  assumed  that  the  North  Briton  is,  to  an 
appreciable  extent,  a  diflFerent  creature  from  the 
Englishman,  the  assumption  is  not  likely  to  provoke 
dispute.  No  one  will  deny  us  the  prominence  of 
our  cheek-bones,  and  our  pride  in  the  same.  How 
far  the  difference  extends,  whether  it  involves  merit 
or  demerit,  are  questions  not  now  sought  to  be 
settled.  Nor  is  it  important  to  discover  how  the 
difference  arose ;  how  far  chiller  climate  and  sourer 
soil,  centuries  of  unequal  yet  not  inglorious  conflict, 
a  separate  race  of  kings,  a  body  of  separate  traditions, 
and  a  peculiar  crisis  of  reformation  issuing  in  peculiar 
forms  of  religious  worship,  confirmed  and  strengthened 
the  national  idiosyncracy.  If  a  difference  between 
the  races  be  allowed,  it  is  sufficient  for  the  present 
purpose.  That  allowed,  and  Scot  and  Southern  being 
fecund  in  literary  genius,  it  becomes  an  interesting 
inquiry  to  what  extent  the  great  literary  men  of  the 
one  race  have  influenced  the  great  literary  men  of 
the  other.  On  the  whole,  perhaps,  the  two  races 
may  fairly  cry  quits.     Not  unfrequently,  indeed,  have 

(T2) 


Dunbar.  73 

literary  influences  arisen  in  the  north  and  travelled 
south vvards.  There  were  the  Scottish  ballads,  for 
instance,  there  was  Burns,  there  was  Sir  Walter  Scott, 
there  is  Mr.  Carlyle.  The  literary  influence  repre- 
sented by  each  of  these  arose  in  Scotland,  and  has 
either  passed  or  is  passing  "  in  music  out  of  sight " 
in  England.  The  energy  of  the  northern  wave  has 
rolled  into  the  southern  waters.  On  the  other  hand, 
we  can  mark  the  literary  influences  travelling  from 
the  south  northward.  The  English  Chaucer  rises, 
and  the  current  of  his  influence  is  long  afterwards 
visible  in  the  Scottish  King  James,  and  the  Scottish 
poet  Dunbar.  That  which  was  Prior  and  Gay  in 
London,  became  Allan  Ramsay  when  it  reached 
Edinburgh.-  Inspiration,  not  unfrequently,  has  trav- 
elled, like  summer,  from  the  south  northwards ;  just 
as,  when  the  day  is  over,  and  the  lamps  are  lighted 
in  London,  the  radiance  of  the  setting  sun  is  lingering 
on  the  splintered  peaks  and  rosy  friths  of  the  Hebrides. 
All  this,  however,  is  a  matter  of  the  past ;  literary 
influence  can  no  longer  be  expected  to  travel  leisurely 
from  south  to  north,  or  from  north  to  south.  In 
times  of  literary  acti\-ity,  as  at  the  beginning  of  the 
present  century,  the  atmosphere  of  passion  or  specu- 
lation envelops  the  entire  island,  and  Scottish  and 
English  writers  simultaneously  draw  from  it  what 
their  peculiar  natures  prompt  —  just  as  in  the  same 
garden  the  rose  drinks  crimson  and  the  convolvulus 
azure  from  the  superincumbent  air. 


74  Dunbar. 

Chaucer  must  always  remain  a  name  in  British 
literary  history.  He  appeared  at  a  time  when  the 
Saxon  and  Norman  races  had  become  fused,  and 
when  ancient  bitternesses  were  lost  in  the  proud  title 
of  Englishman.  He  was  the  first  great  poet  the 
island  produced ;  and  he  wrote  for  the  most  part  in 
the  language  of  the  people,  with  just  the  slightest  in- 
fusion of  the  courtlier  Norman  element,  which  gives 
to  his  writings  something  of  the  high-bred  air  that 
the  short  upper-lip  gives  to  the  human  countenance. 
In  his  earlier  poems  he  was  under  the  influence  of  the 
Provenyal  Troubadours,  and  in  his  "  Flower  and  the 
Leaf,"  and  other  works  of  a  similar  class,  he  riots  in 
allegory;  he  represents  the  cardinal  virtues  walking, 
about  in  human  shape  ;  his  forests  are  full  ef  beauti- 
ful ladies  with  coronals  on  their  heads  ;  courts  of  love 
are  held  beneath  the  spreading  elm,  and  metaphysical 
goldfinches  and  nightingales,  perched  among  the 
branches  green,  wrangle  melodiously  about  the  tender 
passion.  In  these  poems  he  is  fresh,  charming, 
fanciful  as  the  spring-time  itself:  ever  picturesque, 
ever  musical,  and  with  a  homely  touch  and  stroke  of 
irony  here  and  there,  suggesting  a  depth  of  serious 
matter  in  him  which  it  needed  years  only  to  develop. 
He  lived  in  a  brilliant  and  stirring  time  ;  he  was  con- 
nected with  the  court ;  he  served  in  armies  ;  he 
visited  the  Continent ;  and,  although  a  silent  man,  he 
carried  with  him,  wherever  he  went,  and  into  what- 
ever  company  he   was   thrown,  the  most  observant 


Dunbar.  75 

eyes  perhaps  that  ever  looked  curiously  out  upon 
the  world.  There  was  nothing  too  mean  or  too  trivial 
for  his  regard.  After  parting  with  a  man,  one  fancies 
that  he  knew  every  line  and  wrinkle  of  his  face, 
had  marked  the  travel-stains  on  his  boots,  and  had 
counted  the  slashes  on  his  doublet.  And  so  it  was 
that,  after  mixing  in  kings'  courts,  and  sitting  with 
friars  in  taverns,  and  talking  with  people  on  country 
roads,  and  travelling  in  France  and  Italy,  and  making 
himself  master  of  the  literature,  science,  and  theology 
of  his  time,  and  when  perhaps  touched  with  mis- 
fortune and  sorrow,  he  came  to  see  the  depth  of 
interest  that  resides  in  actual  life,  —  that  the  rudest 
clown  even,  with  his  sordid  humors  and  coarse 
speech,  is  intrinsically  more  valuable  than  a  whole 
forest  full  of  goddesses,  or  innumerable  processions 
of  cardinal  virtues,  however  well  mounted  and  splen- 
didly attired.  It  was  in  some  such  mood  of  mind 
that  Chaucer  penned  those  unparalleled  pictures  of 
contemporary  life  that  delight  yet,  after  five  cen- 
turies have  come  and  gone.  It  is  difficult  to  define 
Chaucer's  charm.  He  does  not  indulge  in  fine  senti- 
ment ;  he  has  no  bravura  passages  ;  he  is  ever  master 
of  himself  and  of  his  subject.  The  light  upon  his 
page  is  the  light  of  common  day.  Although  powerful 
delineations  of  passion  may  be  found  in  his  "  Tales," 
and  wonderful  descriptions  of  nature,  and  although 
certain  of  the  passages  relating  to  Constance  and 
Griselda   in   their   deep  distresses  are  unrivalled  in 


76  Dunbar. 

tenderness,  neither  passion,  nor  natural  description, 
nor  pathos,  are  his  striking  characteristics.  It  is  his 
shrewdness,  his  conciseness,  his  ever-present  humor, 
his  frequent  irony,  and  his  short,  homely  line  —  effec- 
tive as  the  play  of  the  short  Roman  sword  —  which 
strikes  the  reader  most.  In  the  "  Prologue  to  the 
Canterbury  Tales  "  —  by  far  the  ripest  thing  he  has 
done  —  he  seems  to  be  ^\Titing  the  easiest,  most  idio- 
matic prose,  but  it  is  poetry  all  the  while.  He  is  a 
poet  of  natural  manner,  dealing  with  out-door  life. 
Perhaps,  en  the  whole,  the  writer  who  most  resombles 
him  —  superficial  differences  apart  —  is  Fielding.  In 
both  there  is  constant  shrewdness  and  common  sense, 
a  constant  feeling  of  the  comic  side  of  things, 
a  moral  instinct  which  escapes  in  irony,  never  in 
denunciation  or  fanaticism ;  no  remarkable  spiritu- 
ality of  feeling,  an  acceptance  of  the  world  as  a 
pleasant  enough  place,  provided  good  dinners  and 
a  sufficiency  of  cash  are  to  be  had,  and  that  healthy 
relish  for  fact  and  reality,  and  scorn  of  humbug 
of  all  kinds,  especially  of  that  particular  phase  of 
it  which  makes  one  appear  better  than  one  is,  which 
—  for  want  of  a  better  term  —  we  are  accustomed 
to  call  Englith.  Chaucer  was  a  Conservative  in  all 
his  feelings  ;  he  liked  to  poke  his  fun  at  the  clergy, 
but  he  was  not  of  the  stuff  of  which  martyrs  are 
made.  He  loved  good  eating  and  drinking,  and 
studious  leisure  and  peace  ;  and  although  in  his  ordi- 
nary  moods   shrewd,   and   observant,    and    satirical, 


Dunbar.  77 

his  higher  genius  would  now  and  then  splendidly 
assert  itself — and  behold  the  tournament  at  Athens, 
where  kings  are  combatants  and  Emily  the  prize  ;  or 
the  little  boat,  containing  the  brain-bewildered  Con- 
stance and  her  child,  wandering  hither  and  thither  on 
the  friendly  sea. 

Chaucer  was  born  about  1328,  and  died  about 
1380  ;  and  although  he  had,  both  in  Scotland  and 
England,  contemporaries  and  immediate  successors, 
no  one  of  them  can  be  compared  with  him  for  a 
moment.  The  "  Moral  Gower  "  was  his  friend,  and 
inherited  his  tediousness  and  pedantry  without  a 
sparkle  of  his  fancy,  passion,  humor,  wisdom,  and 
good  spirits.  Occleve  and  Lydgate  followed  in  the 
next  generation  ;  and  although  their  names  are  re- 
tained in  literary  histories,  no  line  or  sentence  of 
theirs  has  found  a  place  in  human  memory.  The 
Scottish  contemporary  of  Chaucer  was  Barbour,  who, 
although  deficient  in  tenderness  and  imagination, 
deserves  praise  for  his  sinewy  and  occasionally 
picturesque  verse.  "  The  Bruce "  is  really  a  fine 
poem.  The  hero  is  noble,  resolute,  and  wise.  Sir 
James  Douglas  is  a  very  perfect,  gentle  knight.  The 
old  Churchman  had  the  true  poetic  fire  in  him.  He 
rises  into  eloquence  in  an  apostrophe  to  Freedom, 
and  he  fights  the  battle  of  Bannockburn  over  again 
with  great  valor,  shouting  and  flapping  of  stand- 
ards. In  England,  nature  seemed  to  have  exhausted 
herself  in  Chaucer,    and  she  lay  quiescent  till  Lord 


78  Dunhar. 

Surrey  and  Sir  Thomas  Wyatt  came,  the  immediate 
precursors  of  Spenser,  Shakspeare,  and  their  com- 
panions. 

While  in  England  the  note  of  the  nightingale  sud- 
denly ceased,  to  be  succeeded  by  the  mere  chirping 
of  bam-door  sparrows,  the  divine  and  melancholy  voice 
began  to  be  heard  further  north.  It  was  during  that 
most  barren  period  of  English  poetry  —  extending 
from  Chaucer's  death  till  the  beginning  of  Elizabeth's 
reign  —  that  Scottish  poetry  arose,  suddenly,  splen- 
didly —  to  be  matched  only  by  that  other  uprising 
nearer  our  own  time,  equally  unexpected  and  splen- 
did, of  Burns  and  Scott,  And  it  is  curious  to  notice 
in  this  brilliant  outburst  of  northern  genius  how  much 
is  owing  to  Chaucer  ;  the  cast  of  language  is  identi- 
cal, the  literary  form  is  the  same,  there  is  the  same 
way  of  looking  at  nature,  the  same  allegorical  forests, 
the  troops  of  ladies,  the  same  processions  of  cardinal 
virtues.  James  I.,  whose  long  captivity  in  England 
made  him  acquainted  with  Chaucer's  works,  was  the 
leader  of  the  poetic  movement  which  culminated  in 
Dunbar,  and  died  away  in  Sir  David  Lindsay  just 
before  the  noise  and  turmoil  of  the  Reformation  set 
in.  In  the  concluding  stanza  of  the  "  Quair,"  James 
records  his  obligation  to  those  — 

"  Masters  dear, 
Gowor  iinft  Chancer,  that  on  the  steppes  sate 

Of  retorick,  while  tliey  were  livaad  here, 
Superlative  as  poets  laureate 
Of  morality  and  eloquence  ornate." 


Dunbar.  79 

But  while,  during  the  reigns  of  the  Jameses,  Scottish 
genius  was  being  acted  upon  by  the  broader  and 
deeper  genius  of  England,  Scotland,  quite  uncon- 
sciously to  herself,  was  preparing  a  liquidation  in  full 
of  all  spiritual  obligations.  For  even  then,  in  obscure 
nooks  and  corners,  the  Scottish  ballads  were  growing 
up,  quite  uncontrolled  by  critical  rules,  rude  in  struc- 
ture and  expression,  yet,  at  the  same  time,  full  of 
vitality,  retaining  in  all  their  keenness  the  mirth  of 
rustic  festivals,  and  the  piteousness  of  domestic 
tragedies.  The  stormy  feudal  time  out  of  which 
they  arose  crumbled  by  process  of  gradual  decay, 
but  they  remained,  made  brighter  by  each  succeeding 
summer,  like  the  wild-flowers  that  blow  in  the  chinks 
of  ruins.  And  when  English  poetry  had  become  arti- 
ficial and  cold,  the  lucubrations  of  forgotten  Scottish 
minstrels,  full  of  the  touches  that  make  the  whole 
world  kin,  brought  new  life  with  them.  Scotland 
had  invaded  England  more  than  once,  but  the  blue 
bonnets  never  went  over  the  border  so  triumphantly 
as  when  they  did  so  in  the  shape  of  songs  and  ballads. 
James  IV.,  if  not  the  wisest,  was  certainly  the  most 
brilliant  monarch  of  his  name  ;  and  he  was  fortunate 
beyond  the  later  Stuarts  in  this,  that  during  his  life- 
time no  new  popular  tide  had  set  in  which  it  behooved 
him  to  oppose  or  to  float  upon.  For  him  in  all  its 
essentials  to-day  had  flowed  quietly  out  of  yesterday, 
and  he  lived  unperplexed  by  fear  of  change.  With 
something  of  a  Southern   gayety  of  spkit,  he  was  a 


80  Dunbar. 

merrier  monarch  than  his  dark-featured  and  saturnine 
descendant  who  bore  the  appellation.  He  was  fond 
of  martial  sports,  be  loved  to  glitter  at  tournaments, 
his  court  was  crowded  with  singing  men  and  sing- 
ing women.  Yet  he  had  his  gloomy  moods  and 
superstitious  despondencies.  He  could  not  forget 
that  he  had  appeared  in  arms  against  his  father  ;  even 
while  he  whispered  in  the  ear  of  beauty  the  iron  belt 
of  penance  was  fretting  his  side,  and  he  alternated 
the  splendid  revel  with  the  cell  of  the  monk.  In 
these  days,  and  for  long  after,  the  borders  were  dis- 
turbed, and  the  Highland  clans,  setting  royal  authority 
at  defiance,  were  throttling  each  other  in  their  mists. 
The  Catholic  religion  was  yet  unsapped,  and  the  wealth 
of  the  country  resided  in  the  hands  of  the  nobles  and 
the  churchmen.  Edinburgh  towered  high  on  the 
ridge  between  Holyrood  and  the  Castle,  its  streets 
reddened  with  feud  at  intervals,  and  its  merchants 
clustering  round  the  Cathedral  of  St.  Giles  like  bees 
in  a  honeycomb  ;  and  the  king,  when  he  looked 
across  the  faint  azure  of  the  Forth,  beheld  the  long 
coast  of  Fife  dotted  with  little  towns,  where  ships  were 
moored  that  traded  \vith  France  and  HoUand,  and 
brought  with  them  cargoes  of  silks  and  wines.  James 
was  a  popular  monarch ;  he  was  beloved  by  the 
nobles  and  by  the  people.  He  loved  justice,  he 
cultivated  his  marine,  and  he  built  the  Great  Michael 
—  the  Gnat  Eastern  of  that  day.  He  had  valiant 
seamen,  aud  more  than  once  Barton  sailed  into  Leith 


Dunbar.  81 

with  a  string  oi  English  prizes.  When  he  fell  with 
all  his  nobility  at  Flodden,  there  came  upon  Scotland 
the  woe  with  which  she  was  so  familiar  — 

"  Woe  to  that  realme  that  haith  an  ower  young;  king." 

A  long  regency  followed  ;  disturbing  elements  of  re- 
ligion entered  into  the  life  of  the  nation,  and  the  his- 
torical stream  which  had  flowed  smoothly  for  a  series 
of  years  became  all  at  once  convulsed  and  turbulent, 
as  if  it  had  entered  upon  a  gorge  of  rapids.  It  was 
in  this  pleasant  interregnum  of  the  reign  of  the  fourth 
James,  when  ancient  disorders  had  to  a  certain  extent 
been  repressed,  and  when  religious  difficulties  ahead 
were  yet  undreamed  of,  that  the  poet  Dunbar  flour- 
ished —  a  nightingale  singing  in  a  sunny  lull  of  the 
Scottish  historical  storm. 

Modern  readers  are  acquainted  with  Dunbar  chiefly 
through  the  medium  of  Mr.  David  Laing's  beautiful 
edition  of  his  works  published  in  1834,  and  by  good 
Dr.  Irving's  intelligent  and  admirable  compacted 
"  History  of  Scottish  Poetry,"  published  the  other 
day.  Irving's  work,  if  deficient  somewhat  in  fluency 
and  grace  of  style,  is  characterized  by  conscientious- 
ness of  statement  and  by  the  ripest  knowledge.  Yet, 
despite  the  researches  of  these  competent  writers,  of 
the  events  of  the  poet's  life  not  much  is  known.  He 
was  born  about  1460,  and  from  an  unquotable  allu- 
sion in  one  of  his  poems,  he  is  supposed  to  have  been 
a  native  of  the  Lothians.  His  name  occurs  in  the 
6 


82  Dunbar. 

register  of  the  University  of  St.  Andrews  as  a  Bachelor 
of  Arts.  With  the  exception  of  these  entries  in  the 
college  register,  there  is  nothing  authentically  knowTi 
of  his  early  life.  We  have  no  portrait  of  him,  and 
cannot  by  that  means  decipher  him.  We  do  not  know 
with  certainty  from  what  family  he  sprang.  Beyond 
what  light  his  poems  may  throw  on  them,  we  have 
no  knowledge  of  his  habits  and  personal  tastes.  He 
exists  for  the  most  part  in  rumor,  and  the  vague 
shadows  of  things.  It  appears  that  in  early  life  he 
became  a  friar  of  the  order  of  St.  Francis  ;  and  in  the 
capacity  of  a  travelling  priest  he  tells  us  that  "  he 
preached  in  Dernto\\Ti  kirk  and  in  Canterbury ;  "  that 
he  "  passed  at  Dover  across  the  Channel,  and  went 
through  Picardy  teaching  the  people."  He  does  not 
seem  to  have  taken  kindly  to  his  profession.  His 
works  are  full  of  sarcastic  allusions  to  the  clergy,  and 
in  no  measured  terms  he  denounces  their  luxury,  their 
worldly-mindedness,  and  their  desire  for  high  place 
and  fat  livings.  Yet  these  denunciations  have  no 
very  spiritual  origin.  His  rage  is  the  rage  of  a  dis- 
appointed candidate,  rather  than  of  a  prophet ;  and, 
to  the  last,  he  seems  to  have  expected  preferment  in 
the  Church.  Not  without  a  certain  pathos  he  writes, 
when  he  had  become  familiar  with  disappointment, 
and  the  sickness  of  hope  deferred  — 

"  I  WC8  in  youth  an  nureiss  knee, 
Daudely  !  bisehop,  dandely  ! 
And  quhon  that  age  now  dois  me  greif, 
Ane  sempill  vicar  I  can  nocht  be." 


Dunbar.  83 

It  is  not  known  when  he  entered  the  service  of 
King  James.  From  his  poems  it  appears  that  he  was 
employed  as  a  clerk  or  secretary  in  several  of  the 
missions  despatched  to  foreign  courts.  It  is  difficult 
to  guess  in  what  capacity  Dunbar  served  at  Holyrood. 
He  was  all  his  life  a  priest,  and  expected  preferment 
from  his  royal  patron.  We  know  that  he  performed 
mass  in  the  presence.  Yet,  when  the  king,  in  one  of 
his  dark  moods,  had  withdrawn  from  the  gayeties 
of  the  capital  to  the  religious  gloom  of  the  convent 
of  Franciscans  at  Stirling,  we  find  the  poet  indit- 
ing a  parody  on  the  machinery  of  the  Church,  calling 
on  Father,  Son,  and  Holy  Spirit,  and  on  all  the  saints 
of  the  calendar,  to  transport  the  princely  penitent 
from  Stirling,  "where  ale  is  thin  and  small,"  to  Edin- 
burgh, where  there  is  abundance  of  swans,  cranes, 
and  plovers,  and  the  fragrant  clarets  of  France.  And 
in  another  of  his  poems,  he  describes  himself  as  dancing 
in  the  Queen's  chamber  so  zealously  that  he  lost  one  of 
his  slippers,  a  mishap  which  provoked  her  Majesty  to 
great  mirth.  Probably,  as  the  king  was  possessed  of 
considerable  literary  taste,  and  could  appreciate  Dun- 
bar's fancy  and  satire,  he  kept  him  attached  to  hia 
person,  with  the  intention  of  conferring  a  benefice  on 
him  when  one  fell  vacant ;  and  when  a  benefice  did  fall 
vacant,  felt  compelled  to  bestow  it  on  the  cadet  of 
some  powerful  family  in  the  state,  —  for  it  was  always 
the  policy  of  James  to  stand  well  with  his  nobles.  He 
remembered  too  well  the  deaths  of  his  father  and 


84  Dunbar. 

great-grandfather  to  give  unnecessary  offence  to  his 
great  barons.  From  his  connection  with  the  court 
the  poet's  life  may  be  briefly  epitomized.  In  August, 
1500,  his  royal  master  granted  Dunbar  an  annual 
pension  of  £10  for  life,  or  till  such  time  as  he  should 
be  promoted  to  a  benefice  of  the  annual  value  of  £40. 
In  1501,  he  visited  England  in  the  train  of  the  am- 
bassadors sent  thither  to  negotiate  the  king's  mar- 
riage. The  marriage  took  place  in  May,  1503,  on 
which  occasion  the  high-piled  capital  wore  holiday 
attire,  balconies  blazed  with  scarlet  cloth,  and  the 
loyal  multitude  shouted  as  bride  and  bridegroom  rode 
past,  with  the  chivalry  of  the  two  kingdoms  in  their 
train.  Early  in  May,  Dunbar  composed  his  most 
celebrated  poem  in  honor  of  the  event.  Next  year 
he  said  mass  in  the  king's  presence  for  the  first  time, 
and  received  a  liberal  reward.  In  1505,  he  received 
a  sum  in  addition  to  his  stated  pension,  and  two  years 
thereafter  his  pension  was  doubled.  In  August,  1510, 
his  pension  was  increased  to  £80  per  annum,  until  he 
became  possessed  of  a  benefice  of  the  annual  value  of 
£100  or  upwards.  In  1513,  Flodden  was  fought,  and 
in  the  confusion  consequent  on  the  king's  death,  Dun- 
bar and  his  slowly  increasing  pensions  disappear  from 
the  records  of  things.  We  do  not  know  whether  he 
received  his  benefice ;  we  do  not  know  the  date  of 
his  death,  and  to  this  day  his  grave  is  secret  as  the 
grave  of  Moses. 

Knowing  but  little  of  Dunbar's  life,  our  iutercbt  is 


Dunbar.  8S 

naturally  concentrated  on  what  of  his  writings  remain 
to  us.  And  to  modern  eyes  the  old  poet  is  a  singular 
spectacle.  His  language  is  different  from  ours ;  his 
mental  structure  and  modes  of  thought  are  unfamiliar ; 
in  his  intellectual  world,  as  we  map  it  out  to  ourselves, 
it  is  difficult  to  conceive  how  a  comfortable  existence 
could  be  attained.  Times,  manners,  and  ideas  have 
changed,  and  we  look  upon  Dunbar  with  a  certain 
reverential  wonder  and  curiosity  as  we  look  upon 
Tcintallon,  standing  up,  grim  and  gray,  in  th?  midst 
of  the  modern  landscape.  The  grand  old  fortress 
is  a  remnant  of  a  state  of  things  which  have  utterly 
passed  away.  Curiously,  as  we  walk  beside  it,  we 
think  of  the  actual  human  life  its  walls  contained. 
In  those  groat  fire-places  logs  actually  burned  once, 
and  in  wintor  nights  men-at-arms  spread  out  big 
palms  against  the  grateful  heat.  In  those  empty 
apartments  was  laughter,  and  feasting,  and  serious 
talk  enough  in  troublous  times,  and  births,  and 
deaths,  and  the  bringing  home  of  brides  in  their 
blushes.  This  empty  moat  was  filled  with  water, 
to  keep  at  bay  long-forgotten  enemies,  and  yonder 
loop-hole  Avas  made  narrow,  as  a  protection  from 
long-mouldered  arrows.  In  Tantallon  we  know  the 
Douglases  lived  in  state,  and  bearded  kings,  and 
hung  out  ban»erst»*he  breeze;  but  a  sense  of  won- 
der is  mingled  with  Mi  knowledge ;  for  the  bothy  of 
the  Lothian  farmei*  is  even  more  in  accordance  with 
our  nttthods  of  conducting  life.     Dunbar  affects  us 


86  Dunbar. 

similarly.  We  know  that  he  possessed  a  keen  intel- 
lect, a  blossoming  fancy,  a. satiric  touch  that  blistered, 
a  melody  that  enchanted  Northern  ears ;  but  then  we 
have  lost  the  story  of  his  life,  and  from  his  poems, 
with  their  wonderful  contrasts,  the  delicacy  and  spring- 
like flush  of  feeling,  the  piety,  the  freedom  of  speech 
the  irreverent  use  of  the  sacredest  names,  the  "  Flyt- 
ing "  and  the  "  Lament  for  the  Makars,"  there  is 
difficulty  in  making  one's  ideas  of  him  cohere.  He 
is  present  to  the  imagination,  and  yet  remote.  Like 
Tantallon,  he  is  a  portion  of  the  past.  We  are 
separated  from  him  by  centuries,  and  that  chasm  we 
are  unable  to  bridge  properly. 

The  first  thing  that  strikes  the  reader  of  these 
poems  is  their  variety  and  intellectual  range.  It 
may  be  said  that  —  partly  from  constitutional  turn  of 
thought,  partly  from  the  turbulent  and  chaotic  time 
in  which  he  lived,  when  families  rose  to  splendor 
and  as  suddenly  collapsed,  when  the  steed  that  bore 
his  rider  at  morning  to  the  hunting-field  returned  at 
evening  masterless  to  the  castle-gate  —  Dunbar's  pre- 
vailing mood  of  mind  is  melancholy ;  that  he,  with  a 
certain  fondness  for  the  subject,  as  if  it  gave  him 
actual  relief,  moralized  over  the  sandy  foundations  of 
mortal  prosperity,  the  advance  of  age  putting  out  the 
lights  of  youth,  and  cancelling  ||}e  rapture  <  f  the  lover, 
and  the  certainty  of  death,  '^s  is  a  favorite  path 
of  contemplation  with  him,  and  he  pursues  it  with  a 
gloomy  sedateness   of  acquiescence,    whichi^   more 


Dunbar.  87 

affecting  than  if  he  raved  and  foamed  against  the 
inevitable.  But  he  has  the  mobility  of  the  poetic 
nature,  and  the  sad  ground-tone  is  often  drowned  in 
the  ecstasy  of  lighter  notes.  All  at  once  the  "  bare 
ruined  choirs  "  are  covered  with  the  glad  light-green 
of  spring.  His  genius  combined  the  excellences 
of  many  masters.  His  "  Golden  Targe "  and  the 
"  Thistle  and  the  Rose  "  are  allegorical  poems,  full 
of  color,  fancy,  and  music.  His  "  Two  Married 
Women  and  the  Widow  "  has  a  good  deal  of  Chau- 
cer's slyness  and  humor.  "  The  Dance  of  the  Deadly 
Sins,"  with  its  fiery  bursts  of  imaginative  energy,  its 
pictures  finished  at  a  stroke,  is  a  prophecy  of  Spenser 
and  Collins,  and  as  fine  as  any  thing  they  have  accom- 
plished ;  while  his  "  Flytings  "  are  torrents  of  the 
coarsest  vituperation.  And  there  are  whole  flights 
of  occasional  poems,  many  of  them  sombre- colored 
enough,  with  an  ever-recurring  mournful  refrain,  oth- 
ers satirical,  but  all  flung  off,  one  can  see,  at  a  sitting  ; 
in  the  few  verses  the  mood  is  exhausted,  and  while  the 
result  remains,  the  cause  is  forgotten  even  by  himself. 
Several  of  these  short  poems  are  almost  perfect  in 
feeling  and  execution.  The  melancholy  ones  are  full 
of  a  serious  grace,  while  in  the  satirical  a  laughing 
devil  of  glee  and  malice  sparkles  in  every  line.  Some 
of  these  latter  are  dangerous  to  touch  as  a  thistle  — 
all  bristling  and  angry  with  the  spikes  of  satiric  scorn. 
In  his  allegorical  poems  —  "  The  GoLlen  Targe," 
"  The  Merle  and  the  Nightingale,"  "  The  Thistle  and 


88  Dunbar. 

the  Rose/'  —  Dunbar's  fancy  has  full  scope.  As 
allegories,  they  are,  perhaps,  not  worth  much  ;  at  all 
events,  modern  readers  do  not  care  for  the  adventures 
of  "  Quaking  Dread  and  Humble  Obedience  ; "  nor 
are  they  affected  by  descriptions  of  Beauty,  attended 
by  her  damsels.  Fair  Having,  Fine  Portraiture,  Plea- 
sance,  and  Lusty  Cheer.  The  whole  conduct  and 
machinery  of  such  things  are  too  artificial  and  stilted 
for  modern  tastes.  Stately  masques  are  no  longer 
performed  in  earl's  mansions ;  and  when  a  sovereign 
enters  a  city,  a  fair  lady,  with  wings,  representing 
Loyalty,  does  not  burst  out  of  a  pasteboard  cloud 
and  recite  a  poetical  address  to  Majesty.  In  our 
theatres  the  pantomime,  which  was  originally  an 
adumbration  of  human  life,  has  become  degraded. 
Symbolism  has  departed  from  the  boards,  and  bur- 
lesque reigns  in  its  stead.  The  Lord  Mayor's  Show, 
the  last  remnant  of  the  antique  spectacular  taste, 
does  not  move  us  now  ;  it  is  held  a  public  nuisance  ; 
it  provokes  the  rude  "chaff"  of  the  streets.  Our 
very  mobs  have  become  critical.  Gog  and  Magog  are 
dethroned.  The  knight  feels  the  satiric  comments 
through  his  armor.  The  very  steeds  are  uneasy,  as 
if  ashamed.  But  in  Dunbar  the  allegorical  machinery 
is  saved  from  contempt  by  color,  poetry,  and  music. 
Quick  surprises  of  beauty,  and  a  rapid  succession  of 
pictures,  keep  the  attention  awake.     Now  it  is  — 

"  May,  of  mirthful  monothis  queen, 
Betwixt  April  and  June,  her  sisters  ehecn, 
Within  tlie  garden  walking  up  and  down." 


Dunbar.  89 

Now  — 

"  The  god  of  windis,  Eolus, 
With  variand  look,  richt  like  a  lord  unstable.' 

Now  the  nightingale  — 

"  Never  sweeter  noise  was  heard  with  livin'  man, 
Nor  made  this  merry,  gentle  nightingale  ; 
Her  sound  went  with  the  river  as  it  ran 
Out  throw  the  fresh  and  flourislied  lusty  vale." 

And  now  a  spring  morning  — 

"  Ere  Phoebus  was  in  purple  cape  revest, 
Up  raise  the  lark,  the  lieaven's  minstrel  fine, 
In  May,  in  till  a  morrow  mirthfuUest. 

"  Full  angol-like  thir  birdis  sang  their  hours 
Within  their  curtains  green,  in  to  their  hours 
Apparelled  white  and  red  with  bloomes  sweet ; 
Enamelled  was  the  field  with  all  colours, 
The  pearly  droppis  ishook  iu  silver  shours  j 
While  all  iu  balm  did  branch  and  leavis  fleet. 
To  part  fra  Phoebus  did  Aurora  greet. 
Her  crystal  tears  I  saw  hing  on  the  flours, 
While  he  for  love  all  drank  up  with  his  heat. 

"  For  mirth  of  May,  with  skippis  and  with  hops, 
The  birdis  sang  upon  the  tender  crops, 
With  curious  notes,  as  Venus'  chapel  clerks  ; 
The  roses  young,  new  spreading  of  their  knops, 
Were  powderit  bricht  with  heavenly  beriall  drops. 
Through  boames  red,  burning  as  ruby  sparks  ; 
The  skies  rang  for  shouting  of  the  larks, 
The  purple  heaven  once  scal't  in  silver  slops, 
Oure  gilt  the  trees,  branches,  leaves,  and  barks." 

The  finest  of  Dunbar's  poems  in  this  style  is  the 
"  Thistle  and  the  Rose."  It  was  written  in  celebra- 
tion of  the  marriage  of  James  with  the  Princess 
Margaret  of  England,  and  the  royal  pair  are  happily 
represented  as  the  national  emblems.     It,  of  course. 


90  Dunbar. 

opens  with  a  description  of  a  spring  morning.  Dame 
Nature  resolves  that  every  bird,  beast,  and  flower 
should  compeer  before  her  highness ;  the  roe  is  com- 
manded to  summon  the  animals,  the  restless  swallow 
the  birds,  and  the  "  conjured  "  yarrow  the  herbs  and 
flowers.  In  the  twinkling  of  an  eye  they  stand  before 
the  queen.  The  lion  and  the  eagle  are  crowned,  and 
are  instructed  to  be  humble  and  just,  and  to  exercise 
their  powers  mercifully :  — 

*'  Then  c  illit  she  all  flouris  that  grew  in  field, 

Discerning  all  their  Reasons  and  effeirs, 
Upon  the  iiwful  thistle  she  beheld 

And  saw  him  keepit  with  a  bush  of  spears : 

Consid'ring-  him  so  able  for  the  weirs, 
A  radius  crown  of  rubies  slic  him  gave, 
And  said,  '  In  field,  go  forth  and  fend  the  lave.' " 

The  rose,  also,  is  crowned,  and  the  poet  gives  utter- 
ance to  the  universal  joy  on  occasion  of  the  mar- 
riage —  type  of  peace  between  two  kingdoms.  Listen 
to  the  rich  music  of  according  voices :  — 

"Then  all  the  birds  sang  with  voice  on  hicht, 

Whose  mirthful  soun'  was  marvellous  to  hear; 

The  mavis  sang.  Hail  Rose,  most  rich  and  richt, 
That  does  up  flourish  under  Phoebus'  sphere, 
Hail  plant  of  youth,  hail  Princess,  dochter  dear; 

Hail  blosom  breaking  out  of  the  bluid  royal, 

Whose  precious  virtue  is  imperial. 

"  The  merle  she  sang.  Hail,  Rose  of  most  delight, 
Hail,  of  all  floris  queen  an'  sovereign  : 

The  lark  she  sang.  Hail,  Rose  both  red  and  white ; 
Most  pleasant  flower,  of  michty  colours  twane : 
The  nichtingale  sang.  Hail,  Nature's  suffragaae, 

In  beauty,  nurture,  and  every  nobleness. 

In  rich  array,  renown,  and  gentleness. 


Diinhar.  91 

"  The  common  voice  up  raise  of  birdes  Bmall, 
Upon  tliis  wise,  Oli,  blossit  be  the  hour 

Thiit  thou  was  chosen«to  be  our  principal ! 
Welcome  to  be  our  Princess  of  honour, 
Our  pearl,  our  pleasance,  and  our  paramour. 

Our  peace,  our  play,  our  plain  felicity  ; 

Christ  thee  comfort  from  all  adversity." 

But  beautiful  as  these  poems  are,  it  is  as  a  satirist 
that  Dunbar  has  performed  his  greatest  feats.  He 
was  by  nature  "  dowered  with  the  scorn  of  scorn," 
and  its  edge  was  whetted  by  life-long  disappointment. 
Like  Spenser,  he  knew  — 

"  What  Hell  it  is  in  suing  long  to  bide." 

And  even  in  poems  where  the  mood  is  melancholy, 
where  the  burden  is  the  shortness  of  life  and  the  un- 
permanence  of  felicity,  his  satiric  rage  breaks  out  in 
single  lines  of  fire.  And  although  his  satire  is  often 
almost  inconceivably  coarse,  the  prompting  instinct 
is  healthy  at  bottom.  He  hates  Vice,  although  his 
hand  is  too  often  in  the  kennel  to  pelt  her  withal. 
He  lays  his  grasp  on  the  bridle-rein  of  the  sleek  pre- 
late, and  upbraids  him  with  his  secret  sins  in  language 
unsuited  to  modern  ears.  His  greater  satires  have  a 
wild  sheen  of  imagination  about  them.  They  are  far 
from  being  cold,  moral  homilies.  His  wrath  or  his 
contempt  breaks  through  the  bounds  of  time  and 
space,  and  brings  the  spiritual  world  on  the  stage. 
He  wishes  to  rebuke  the  citizens  of  Edinburgh  for 
their  habits  of  profane  swearing,  and  the  result  is  a 
poem,  which  probably  gave  Coleridge  the  hint  of  his 


92  Dunbar. 

*'  Devil's  Walk."  Dunbar's  satire  is  entitled  the 
"  Devil's  Inquest."  He  represents  the  Fiend  passing 
up  through  the  market,  and  chuckling  as  he  listens  to 
the  strange  oaths  of  cobbler,  maltman,  tailor,  courtier, 
and  minstrel.  He  comments  on  what  he  hears  and 
sees  with  great  pleasantry  and  satisfaction.  Here  is 
the  conclusion  of  the  piece  :  — 

"  Ane  thief  said,  God  that  ever  I  chaip, 
Nor  ane  stark  widdy  gar  me  gaip, 

But  I  hi  hell  for  geir  wald  be. 
The  Devil  said,  '  Welcome  in  a  raip  : 

Benounce  thy  God,  and  cum  to  me.' 

"  The  fishwives  flet  and  swore  with  granes, 
And  to  the  Fiend  saul  flesh  and  bancs  ; 

They  gave  them,  with  ane  shout  on  hie. 
The  Devil  said, '  AVelcome  all  at  anes : 

Ilenounce  your  God,  and  cum  to  me.' 

"  The  rest  of  craftis  great  aiths  swair, 
Their  wark  and  craft  had  nae  compair, 

Ilk  ane  unto  their  qualitie. 
The  Devil  said  then,  withouten  mair, 

'  Renounce  your  God,  and  cum  to  me.' " 

But  the  greatest  of  Dunbar's  satires  —  in  fact,  the 
greatest  of  all  his  poems — is  that  entitled  the  "  The 
Dance  of  the  Seven  Deadly  Sins."  It  is  short,  but  with- 
in its  compass  most  swift,  vivid,  and  weird.  The  pic- 
tures rise  on  the  reader's  eye,  and  fade  at  once.  It  is  a 
singular  compound  of  farce  and  earnest.  It  is  Spenser 
and  Hogarth  combined  —  the  wildest  grotesquerie 
wrought  on  a  background  of  penal  flame.  The  poet 
conceives  himself  in  a  dream,  on  the  evening  preced- 
ing Lent,  and  in  his  vision  he  heard  Mahoun  com- 


Dunbar.  93 

mand  that  the  wretched  who  "  had  ne'er  been  shriven  " 
should  dance  before  him.  Immediately  a  hideous  rout 
present  themselves ;  "  holy  harlots "  appear  in  their 
finery,  and  never  a  smilo  Avrinkles  the  faces  of  the  on- 
lookers ;  but  when  a  string  of  "  priests  with  their 
shaven  necks  "  come  in,  the  arches  of  the  unnamable 
place  shakes  with  the  laughter  of  all  the  fiends.  Then 
"  The  Seven  Deadly  Sins  "   began  to  leap  at  once  :  — 

"  And  first  of  all  the  dance  was  Pride, 
With  hair  wyld  back  and  bonnet  on  side." 

He,  with  all  his  train,  came  skipping  through  the  fire. 

"  Then  Ire  came  in  with  sturt  and  strife ; 
His  hand  was  aye  upon  his  knife  ;  " 

and  with  him  came  armed  boasters  and  braggarts, 
smiting  each  other  with  swords,  jagging  each  other 
with  knives.  Then  Envy,  trembling  with  secret 
hatred,  accompanied  by  his  court  of  flatterers,  back- 
biters, and  calumniators,  and  all  the  human  serpentry 
that  lurk  in  the  palaces  of  kings.  Then  came  Covet- 
ousness,  with  his  hoarders  and  misers,  and  these  the 
fiends  gave  to  drink  of  newly-molten  gold. 

"  Syne  Swearness,  at  the  second  bidding', 
Came  like  a  sow  out  of  a  midding ;  " 

and  with  him  danced. a  sleepy  crew,  and  Belial  lashed 
them  with  a  bridle-rein,  and  the  fiends  gave  them  a 
turn  in  the  fire  to  make  them  nimbler.  Then  came 
Lechery,  led  by  Idleness,  with  a  host  of  evil  com- 
panions,  "  fuU  strange  of  countenance,  like  torches 


94  Diinhar. 

burning  bright."  Then  came  Gluttony,  so  unwieldy 
that  he  could  hardly  move  :  — 

"  Him  followed  mony  foul  dninkart 
With  can  and  ciillop,  cup  and  quart, 
In  surfeit  and  excess." 

"  Drink,  aye  they  cried,"  with  their  parched  lips  ;  and 
the  fiends  gave  them  hot  lead  to  lap.  Minstrels,  it 
appears,  are  not  to  be  found  in  that  dismal  place :  — 

"  Nae  minstrels  played  to  them  but  doubt, 
For  gleemen  there  were  haldeu  out 

By  day  and  eik  by  nicht : 
Except  a  minstrel  that  slew  a  man, 
So  to  his  heritage  he  wan, 

And  entered  by  brieve  of  richt." 

And  to  the  music  of  the  solitary  poet  in  hell,  the 
strange  shapes  pass.  The  conclusion  of  this  singular 
poem  is  entirely  farcical.  The  devil  is  resolved  to 
make  high  holiday  :  — 

"  Then  cried  Mahoun  for  a  ITiclan  Padyane, 
Syne  ran  a  fiend  to  fetch  Makfadyane, 

Far  north-wast  in  a  neuck ; 
Be  he  the  coronach  had  done  shout, 
Ersche  men  so  g-atherit  him  about, 

In  hell  great  room  they  took. 
Thae  tarmigants,  with  tag  and  tatter. 
Full  loud  in  Ersche  begoud  to  clatter. 

And  roup  like  raven  and  rook. 
The  Devil  sae  deaved  was  w'th  their  yell, 
That  in  the  deepest  pot  of  hell 

He  smorit  them  with  smook." 

There  is  one  other  poem  of  Dunbar's  which  may 
be  quoted  as  a  contrast  to  what  has  been  already 
given.  It  is  remarkable  as  being  the  only  one  in 
which  he  assumes  the  character  of  a  lover.     The  style 


Dunbar.  95 

of  thought  is  quite  modern ;  bereave  it  of  its  uncouth 
orthography,  and  it  might  have  been  written  to-day. 
It  is  turned  with  much  skill  and  grace.  The  consti- 
tutional melancholy  of  the  man  comes  out  in  it ;  as, 
indeed,  it  always  does  when  he  finds  a  serious  topic. 
It  possesses  more  tenderness  and  sentiment  than  is 
his  usual.  It  is  the  night-flower  among  his  poems, 
breathing  a  mournful  fragrance  :  — 

"  Swoit  rose  of  vertew  and  of  g'entilnes, 
Dolytsum  lyllij  of  cvcric  lustyncs, 
Richest  in  bontie,  and  in  beutie  cleir. 
And  every  vertew  that  to  hevin  is  dear, 
Except  onlie  that  ye  ar  mercylcs, 

"  Into  your  garthe  this  day  I  did  persew : 
Thair  saw  I  flowris  that  fresche  wer  of  dew, 
Baith  quiiyte  and  reid  most  lustye  wer  to  seyne, 
And  halsum  herbis  upone  stalkis  grenc ; 
Yet  leif  nor  flour  fynd  could  I  nane  of  rew. 

"  1  doute  that  March,  with  his  cauld  blastis  keyne, 
Hes  slane  this  gentill  herbe,  that  I  of  mene  ; 
Quhois  pitewous  deithe  dois  to  my  hart  sic  pane. 
That  I  wald  mak  to  plant  his  rute  agane, 
So  comfortand  liis  levis  unto  me  bene." 

The  extracts  already  given  will  enable  the  reader 
to  form  some  idea  of  the  old  poet's  general  power  — 
his  music,  his  picturesque  faculty,  his  color,  his  satire. 
Yet  it  is  difficult  from  what  he  has  left  to  form  any 
very  definite  image  of  the  man.  Although  his  poems 
are  for  the  most  part  occasional,  founded  upon  actual 
circumstances,  or  written  to  relieve  him  from  the  over- 
pressure of  angry  or  melancholy  moods,  and  although 
the  writer  is  by  no  means  shy  or  indisposed  to  speak 
of  himself,  his  personality  is  not   made  clear  to  us. 


96  Dunbar. 

There  is  a  great  gap  of  time  between  him  and  the 
modern  reader ;  and  the  mixture  of  gold  and  clay  in 
the  products  of  his  genius,  the  discrepancy  of  ele- 
ments, beauty  and  coarseness,  Apollo's  cheek,  and  the 
satjT's  shaggy  limbs,  are  explainable  partly  from  a  want 
of  harmony  and  completeness  in  himself,  and  partly 
from  the  pressure  of  the  half-barbaric  time.  His 
rudeness  offends,  his  narrowness  astonishes.  But  then 
we  must  remember  that  our  advantages  in  these  re- 
spects do  not  necessarily  arise  from  our  being  of  a 
purer  and  nobler  essence.  We  have  these  things  by 
inheritance  ;  they  have  been  transmitted  to  us  along 
a  line  of  ancestors.  Five  centuries  share  with  us  the 
merit  of  the  result.  Modem  delicacy  of  taste  and 
intellectual  purity  —  although  we  hold  them  in  pos- 
session, and  may  add  to  their  sheen  before  we  hand 
them  on  to  our  children  —  are  no  more  to  be  placed 
to  our  personal  credits  than  Dryden's  satire.  Pope's 
epigram,  Marlborough's  battles,  Burke's  speeches,  and 
the  victories  of  Trafalgar  and  Waterloo.  Intellectual 
delicacy  has  grown  like  our  political  constitution. 
The  English  duke  is  not  the  creator  of  his  own  wealth, 
although  in  his  keeping  it  makes  the  earth  around 
him  a  garden,  and  the  walls  of  his  house  bright  with 
pictures.  But  our  inability  to  conceive  satisfactorily 
of  Dunbar  does  not  arise  from  this  alone.  We  have 
his  works,  but  then  they  are  not  supplemented  by 
personal  anecdote  and  letters,  and  the  reminiscences 
of  contemporaries.  Bums,  for  instance,  —  if  limited 
to  his  works  for  our  knowledge  of  him,  —  would  be  a 


Dunbar.  97 

puzzling  phenomenon.  He  was  in  his  poems  quite 
as  unspoken  as  Dunbar,  but  then  they  describe  so 
wide  an  area,  they  appear  so  contradictory,  they  seem 
often  to  lead  in  opposite  directions.  It  is,  to  a  large 
extent,  through  his  letters  that  Burns  is  known, 
through  his  short,  careless,  pithy  sayings,  which  im- 
bedded themselves  in  the  memories  c^'  his  hearers, 
from  the  recollections  of  his  contemporaries  and  their 
expressed  judgments,  and  the  multiform  reverberations 
of  fame  lingering  around  such  a  man  —  these  fill  up 
insterstices  between  works,  bring  apparent  opposition 
into  intimate  relationship,  and  make  wholeness  out  of 
confusion.  Not  on  the  stage  alone,  in  the  world  also, 
a  man's  real  character  comes  out  best  in  his  asides. 
With  Dunbar  there  is  nothing  of  this.  He  is  a  name, 
and  little  more.  He  exists  in  a  region  to  which  rumor 
and  conjecture  have  never  penetrated.  He  was  long 
neglected  by  his  countrymen,  and  was  brought  to 
light  as  if  by  accident.  He  is  the  Pompeii  of  British 
poetry.  We  have  his  works,  but  they  are  like  the 
circumvallations  of  a  Roman  camp  on  the  Scottish 
hillside.  We  see  lines  stretching  hither  and  thither, 
but  we  cannot  make  out  the  plan,  or  divine  what 
purposes  were  served.  We  only  know  that  every 
crumbled  rampart  was  once  a  defence ;  that  every 
half-obliterated  fosse  once  swarmed  with  men ;  that 
it  was  once  a  station  and  abiding-place  of  human  life, 
although  for  centuries  now  remitted  to  silence  and 
blank  summer  sunshine. 

7 


A    LARK'S  FLIGHT. 

RIGHTLY  or  wrongly,  during  the  last  twenty  or 
thirty  years  a  strong  feeling  has  grown  up  in. 
the  public  mind  against  the  principle,  and  a  still 
stronger  feeling  against  the  practice,  of  capital  punish- 
ments. Many  people  who  will  admit  that  the  execu- 
tion of  the  murderer  may  be,  abstractly  considered, 
just  enough,  sincerely  doubt  whether  such  execution 
be  expedient,  and  are  in  their  own  minds  perfectly 
certain  that  it  cannot  fail  to  demoralize  the  spectators. 
In  consequence  of  this,  executions  have  become  rare  ; 
and  it  is  quite  clear  that  many  scoundrels,  well 
worthy  of  the  noose,  contrive  to  escape  it.  When, 
on  the  occasion  of  a  wretch  being  turned  o£F,  the 
spectators  are  few,  it  is  remarked  by  the  newspapers 
that  the  mob  is  beginning  to  lose  its  proverbial 
cruelty,  and  to  be  stirred  by  humane  pulses  ;  when 
they  are  numerous,  and  especially  when  girls  and 
women  form  a  majority,  the  circumstance  is  noticed 
and  deplored.  It  is  plain  enough  that,  if  the  news- 
paper   considered    such    an    exhibition    beneficial,    it 

(8) 


A  Lark's  Flight.  99 

would  not  lament  over  a  few  thousand  eager  wit- 
nesses :  if  the  sermon  be  edifying,  you  cannot  have 
too  large  a  congregation  ;  if  you  teach  a  moral  lesson 
in  a  grand,  impressive  way,  it  is  difficult  to  see  how 
you  can  have  too  many  pupils.  Of  course,  neither 
the  justice  nor  the  expediancy  of  capital  punishments 
falls  to  be  discussod  here.  This,  however,  may  be 
said,  that  the  popular  feeling  against  them  may  not 
be  so  admirable  a  proof  of  enlightenment  as  many 
believe.  It  is  true  that  the  spectacle  is  painful,  hor- 
rible ;  but  in  pain  and  horror  there  is  often  hidden  a 
certain  salutariness,  and  the  repulsion  of  which  we 
are  conscious  is  as  likely  to  arise  from  debilitation  of 
piblic  nerve,  as  from  a  higher  reach  of  public  feeling. 
To  my  own  thinking,  it  is  out  of  this  pain  and  hate- 
fulness  that  an  execution  becomes  invested  with  an 
ideal  grandeur.  It  is  sheer  horror  to  all  concerned  — 
sheriffs,  halbertmen,  chaplain,  spectators.  Jack  Ketch, 
and  culprit ;  but  out  of  all  this,  and  towering  behind 
the  vulgar  and  hideous  accessories  of  the  scaffold, 
gleams  the  majesty  of  implacable  law.  When  every 
other  fine  morning  a  dozen  cut-purses  were  hanged  at 
Tyburn,  and  Avhen  such  sights  did  not  run  very 
strongly  against  the  popular  current,  the  spectacle 
teas  vulgar,  and  could  be  of  use  only  to  the  possible 
cut-purses  congregated  around  the  foot  of  the  scaflfold. 
Now,  when  the  liw  has  become  so  far  merciful ; 
when  the  punishment  of  death  is  reserved  for  the 
mui'der jr ;  when  he  can   be  condemned  only  on  the 


100  A  Lark's  Flight. 

clearest  evidence ;  when,  as  the  days  draw  slowly  on 
to  doom,  the  frightful  event  impending  over  one 
stricken  wretch  throws  its  shadow  over  the  heart  of 
every  man,  woman,  and  child  in  the  great  city ;  and 
when  the  oiRcial  persons  whose  duty  it  is  to  see  the 
letter  of  the  law  carried  out  perform  that  duty  at  the 
expense  of  personal  pain,  — -  a  public  execution  is  not 
vulgar,  it  becomes  positively  sublime.  It  is  dreadful, 
of  course  ;  but  its  dreadfulness  melts  into  pure  awful- 
ness.  The  attention  is  taken  off  the  criminal,  and  is 
lost  in  a  sense  of  the  grandeur  of  justice  ;  and  the 
spectator  who  beholds  an  execution,  solely  as  it  ap- 
pears to  the  eye,  without  recognition  of  the  idea 
which  towers  behind  it,  must  be  a  very  unspiritual 
and  unimaginative  spectator  indeed. 

It  is  taken  for  granted  that  the  spectators  of  public 
executions  —  the  artisans  and  country  people  who  take 
up  their  stations  over-night  as  close  to  the  barriers  as 
possible,  and  the  wealthier  classes  who  occupy  hired 
windows  and  employ  opera-glasses  —  are  merely  drawn 
together  by  a  morbid  relish  for  horrible  sights.  He 
is  a  bold  man  who  will  stand  forward  as  the  ad- 
vocate of  such  persons  —  so  completely  is  the  pop- 
ular mind  made  up  as  to  their  tastes  and  motives. 
It  is  not  disputed  that  the  large  body  of  the  mob, 
and  of  the  occupants  of  windows,  have  been  drawn 
together  by  an  appetite  for  excitement ;  but  it  is  quite 
possible  that  many  come  there  from  an  impulse  alto- 
gether  different.     Just    consider    the    nature    of   the 


A  Lark's  Flight.  101 

expected  sight,  —  a  man  in  tolerable  health  probably, 
in  possession  of  all  his  faculties,  perfectly  able  to 
realize  his  position,  conscious  that  for  him  this  world 
and  the  next  ara  so  near  th;it  only  a  fe\y  soconda 
divida  them  —  such  a  man  stands  in  the  seeing  of 
S3veral  thousand  eyes.  He  is  so  peculiarly  circum-^ 
stanccd,  so  utterly  lonely,  — hearing  the  tolling  of  his 
own  death-bell,  yet  living,  wearing  the  mourning 
clothes  for  his  own  funeral,  —  that  he  holds  the  mul- 
titude together  by  a  shuddering  fascination.  The 
sight  is  a  peculiar  one,  you  must  admit,  and  every 
peculiarity  has  its  attractions.  Your  volcano  is  more 
attractive  than  your  ordinary  mountain.  Then  con- 
sid:;r  the  unappeasable  curiosity  as  to  death  which 
haunts  every  human  being,  and  how  pathetic  that 
curiosity  is,  in  so  far  as  it  suggests  our  own  ignorance 
and  helplessness,  and  we  see  at  once  that  people 
may  flock  to  public  executions  for  other  purposes 
than  the  gratification  of  morbid  tastes ;  that  they 
would  pluck,  if  they  could,  some  little  knowledge  of 
what  death  is  ;  that  imaginatively  they  attempt  to 
reach  to  it,  to  touch  and  handle  it  through  an  ex- 
perience which  is  not  their  own.  It  is  some  obscure 
desire  of  this  kind,  a  movement  of  curiosity  not  alto- 
gether ignobb,  but  in  some  degree  pathetic ;  some 
rude  attempt  of  the  imagination  to  wrest  from  the 
death  of  the  criminal  information  as  to  the  great 
secret  in  which  each  is  profoundly  interested,  which 
draws  around  the   scaffold  people  from  the  country 


102  A  Lark's  Flight. 

han'est  fields,  and  from  the  streets  and  alleys  of  the 
town.  Nothing  interests  men  so  much  as  death. 
Age  cannot  wither  it,  nor  custom  stile  it.  "  A 
greater  crowd  would  come  to  see  me  hanged,'"  Crom- 
well is  reported  to  have  said  when  the  populaco  came 
forth  on  a  public  occasion.  The  Lord  Protector  was 
right  in  a  sense  of  which,  perhaps,  at  the  moment  he 
was  not  aware.  Death  is  greater  than  officiil  posi- 
tion. When  a  man  has  to  die,  he  may  safely  dispense 
with  stars  and  ribbons.  He  is  invested  with  a 
greater  dignity  than  is  held  in  the  gift  of  kings.  A 
greater  crowd  would  have  gathered  to  see  Cromwell 
hanged,  but  the  compliment  would  have  been  paid 
to  deith  rather  than  to  Cromwell.  Never  were  the 
motions  of  Charles  I.  so  scrutinized  as  when  he  stood 
for  a  few  moments  on  the  scaffold  that  winter  morn- 
ing at  WTiitehall.  King  Louis  was  no  great  orator 
usually,  but  when  on  the  2d  January,  1793,  he  at- 
tempted to  speak  a  few  words  in  the  Place  De  la 
Revolution,  it  was  found  necessary  to  drown  his  voice 
in  a  harsh  roll  of  soldiers'  drums.  Not  without  a 
meaning  do  people  come  forth  to  see  men  die.  We 
stand  in  the  valley,  they  on  the  hill-top,  and  on  their 
faces  strikes  the  light  of  the  other  world,  and  from 
some  sign  or  signal  of  theirs  we  attempt  to  discover 
or  extract  a  hint  of  what  it  is  all  like. 

To  be  publicly  put  to  death,  for  whatever  reason, 
must  ever  be  a  serious  matter.  It  is  alwiys  bitter, 
but  there  are  dcgre.s  in  its  bitterness.     It  is  easy  to 


A  Lark'ii  Flight.  103 

die  like  Stephen  with  an  opened  heaven  above  you, 
crowded  with  angel  facos.  It  is  easy  to  die  like  Bal- 
merino  with  a  chivalrous  sigh  for  the  White  Rose, 
and  an  audible  "  God  bless  King  James."  Such  men 
die  for  a  cause  in  which  they  glory,  and  are  supported 
thereby  ;  they  are  conducted  to  the  portals  of  the  next 
world  by  the  angels.  Faith,  Pity,  Admiration.  But  it 
is  not  easy  to  die  in  expiation  of  a  crime  like  murder, 
which  engirdles  you  with  trembling  and  horror  even 
in  the  loneliest  places,  which  cuts  you  off  from  the 
sympathies  of  your  kind,  which  reduces  the  universe  to 
two  elements  —  a  sense  of  personal  identity,  and  a 
memory  of  guilt.  In  so  dying,  there  must  be  incon- 
ceivable bitterness  ;  a  man  can  have  no  other  support 
than  what  strength  he  may  pluck  from  despair,  or 
from  the  iron  with  which  nature  may  have  originally 
braced  heart  and  nerve.  Yet,  taken  as  a  whole, 
criminals  on  the  scaffold  comport  themselves  credit- 
ably. They  look  Death  in  the  face  when  he  wears 
his  crudest  aspect,  and  if  they  flinch  somewhat,  they 
can  at  least  bear  to  look.  I  believe  that,  for  the 
criminal,  execution  within  the  prison  walls,  with  no 
witnesses  save  some  half  dozen  official  persons,  would 
be  infinitely  mora  terrible  than  execution  in  the  pres- 
ence of  a  curious,  glaring  mob.  The  daylight  and 
the  publicity  are  alien  elements,  which  wean  the 
man  a  little  from  himself.  He  steadies  his  dizzy 
brain  on  the  crowd  beneath  and  around  him.  He 
has   his   last  part  to    play,  and  his  manhood  rallies 


104  A  Lark's  Flight. 

to  play  it  well.  Nay,  so  subtly  is  vanity  intertwined 
with  our  motives,  the  noblest  and  the  most  ignoble, 
that  I  can  fancy  a  poor  wretch  with  the  noose  dan- 
gling at  his  ear,  and  with  barely  five  minutes  to  live, 
soothed  somewhat  with  the  idea  that  his  firmness  and 
composure  will  earn  him  the  approbation,  perhaps 
the  pity,  of  the  spectators.  He  Avould  take  with  him, 
if  he  could,  the  good  opinion  of  his  fellows.  This 
composure  of  criminals  puzzles  one.  Have  they 
looked  at  death  so  long  and  closely,  that  familiarity 
has  robbed  it  of  terror  ?  Has  life  treated  them  so 
harshly,  that  they  are  tolerably  Avell  pleased  to  be 
quit  of  it  on  any  terms  ?  Or  is  the  whole  thing  mere 
blind  stupor  and  delirium,  in  Avhich  thought  is  para- 
lyzed, and  the  man  an  automaton  ?  Speculation  is 
useless.  The  fact  remains  that  criminals  for  the  most 
part  die  well  and  bravely.  It  is  said  that  the  cham- 
pionship of  England  was  to  be  decided  at  some  little 
distance  from  London  on  the  morning  of  the  day  on 
which  Thurtell  was  executed,  and  that,  when  he  came 
out  on  the  scaffold,  he  inquired  privily  of  the  execu- 
tioner if  the  result  had  yet  become  known.  Jack 
Ketch  was  not  aware,  and  Thurtell  expressed  his  re- 
gret that  the  ceremony  in  which  he  was  chief  actor 
should  take  place  so  inconveniently  early  in  the  day. 
Think  of  a  poor  ThurteU  forced  to  take  his  long  jour- 
ney an  hour,  perhaps,  before  the  arrival  of  intelligence 
so  important ! 

More  than  twenty  years  ago  I  saw  two  -men  exe- 


A  Lark's  Flight.  105 

cuted,  and  the  impression  then  made  remains  fresh 
to  this  day.  For  this  there  were  many  reasons.  The 
deed  for  which  the  men  suffered  created  an  immense 
sensation.  They  were  hanged  on  the  spot  where  the 
murder  was  committed  —  on  a  rising  ground,  some 
four  miles  north-east  of  the  city ;  and  as  an  attempt 
at  rescue  was  apprehended,  there  was  a  considerable 
display  of  military  force  on  the  occasion.  And  when, 
in  the  dead  silence  of  thousands,  the  criminals  stood 
beneath  the  halters,  an  incident  occurred,  quite  natu- 
ral and  slight  in  itself,  but  when  taken  in  connection 
with  the  business  then  proceeding,  so  unutterably 
tragic,  so  overwhelming  in  its  pathetic  suggestion  of 
contrast,  that  the  feeling  of  it  has  never  departed,  and 
never  will.  At  the  time,  too,  I  speak  of,  I  was  very 
young ;  the  world  was  like  a  die  newly  cut,  whose 
every  impression  is  fresh  and  vivid. 

While  the  railway  which  connects  two  northern 
capitals  was  being  built,  two  brothers  from  Ireland, 
named  Doolan,  were  engaged  upon  it  in  the  capacity 
of  navvies.  For  some  fault  or  negligence,  one  of  the 
brothers  was  dismissed  by  the  overseer  —  a  Mr.  Green 
—  of  that  particular  portion  of  the  line  on  which  they 
were  employed.  The  dismissed  brother  went  off  in 
search  of  work,  and  the  brother  who  remained  — 
Dennis  was  the  Christian  name  of  him  —  brooded 
over  this  supposed  wrong,  and  in  his  dull,  twilighted 
brain  revolved  projects  of  vengeance.  He  did  not 
absolutely  mean  to  take  Green's  life,  but  he  meant  to 


106  A  Lark's  Flight. 

thrash  him  to  within  an  inch  of  it.  Dennis,  anxious 
to  thrash  Green,  but  not  quite  seeing  his  way  to 
it,  opened  his  mind  one  afternoon,  when  work  was 
over,  to  his  friends  —  fellow- Irishmen  and  na\'\ies  — 
Messrs.  Redding  and  Hickie.  These  took  up  Doo- 
lan's  wrong  as  their  own,  and  that  evening,  by  the  dull 
light  of  a  bothy  fire,  they  held  a  rude  parliament,  dis- 
cussing ways  and  means  of  revenge.  It  was  arranged 
that  Green  should  be  thrashed  —  the  amount  of  thrash- 
ing left  an  open  question,  to  be  decided,  unhappily, 
when  the  blood  was  up  and  the  cinder  of  rage  blown 
into  a  flame.  Hickie's  spirit  was  found  not  to  be  a 
mounting  one,  and  it  was  arranged  that  the  active 
partners  in  the  game  should  be  Doolan  and  Redding. 
Doolan,  as  the  aggrieved  party,  was  to  strike  the  first 
blow,  and  Redding,  as  the  aggrieved  party's  particular 
friend,  asked  and  obtained  permission  to  strike  the 
second.  The  main  conspirators,  with  a  fine  regard  for 
the  feelings  of  the  weaker  Hickie,  allowed  him  to  pro- 
vide the  weapons  of  assault,  —  so  that  by  some  slight 
filament  of  aid  he  might  connect  himself  with  the 
good  cause.  The  unambitious  Hickie  at  once  applied 
himself  to  his  duty.  He  went  out,  and  in  due  time 
returned  with  two  sufficient  iron  pokers.  The  weapons 
were  examined,  approved  of,  and  carefully  laid  aside. 
Doolan,  Redding,  and  Hickie  ate  their  suppers,  and 
retired  to  their  several  couches  to  sleep,  peacefully 
enough  no  doubt.  About  the  same  time,  too,  Green, 
the  English  overseer,  threw  down  his  weary  limbs,  and 


A  Lark's  Flight.  107 

entered  on  his  last  sleep  —  little  dreaming  what  the 
morning  had  in  store  for  him. 

Uprose  the  sun,  and  uprose  Doolan  and  Redding, 
and  dressed,  and  thrust  each  his  sufficient  iron  poker 
up  the  sleeve  of  his  bloase,  and  went  forth.  They 
took  up  their  station  on  a  temporary  wooden  bridge 
which  spanned  the  line,  and  waited  there.  Across 
the  bridge,  as  was  expected,  did  Green  ultimately 
come.  He  gave  them  good  morning ;  asked,  "  why 
they  were  loafing  about?  "  received  no  very  pertinent 
answer,  perhaps  did  not  care  to  receive  one ;  whistled 
—  the  unsuspecting  m  m  !  —  thrust  his  hands  into  his 
breeches  pockets,  turned  his  back  on  them,  and  leaned 
over  the  railing  of  the  bridge,  inspecting  the  progress 
of  the  works  beneath.  The  temrtation  was  really 
too  great.  What  could  wild  Irish  flesh  and  blood  do  ? 
In  a  moment  out  from  the  sleeve  of  Doolan' s  blouse 
came  the  hidden  poker,  and  the  first  blow  was  struck, 
bringing  Green  to  the  ground.  The  friendly  Red- 
ding, who  had  bargained  for  the  second,  and  who, 
naturally  enough,  was  in  fear  of  being  cut  out  alto- 
gether, jumped  on  the  prostrate  man,  and  fuLiUed 
his  share  of  the  bargain  with  a  will.  It  was  Redding 
it  was  supposed  who  sped  the  unhappy  Green.  They 
overdid  their  work  —  like  young  authors  —  giving 
many  more  blows  than  were  sufficient,  and  then  fled. 
The  works,  of  course,  were  that  morning  in  conster- 
nation. Redding  and  Ilickie  were,  if  I  remember 
rightly,  apprehended  in  the  course  of  the  day.  Doo- 
lan got  ofi",  leaving  no  trace  of  his  whereabouts. 


108  A  Lark's  Flight. 

These  particulars  were  all  learned  subsequently. 
The  first  intimation  which  we  schoolboys  received  of 
any  thing  unusual  having  occurred,  was  the  sight  of  a 
detachment  of  soldiers  with  fixed  bayonets,  trousers 
rolled  up  over  muddy  boots,  marching  past  the  front 
of  the  Cathedral  hurriedly  home  to  barracks.  This 
was  a  circumstance  somewhat  unusual.  We  had,  of 
course,  frequently  seen  a  couple  of  soldiers  trudging 
along  with  sloped  muskets,  and  that  cruel  glitter  of 
steel  which  no  one  of  us  could  look  upon  quite  un- 
moved ;  but  in  such  cases,  the  deserter  walking  between 
them  in  his  shirt-sleeves,  his  pinioned  hands  covered 
from  public  gaze  by  the  loose  folds  of  his  great-coat, 
explained  every  thing.  But  from  the  hurried  march 
of  these  mud-splashed  men,  nothing  could  be  gathered, 
and  we  were  left  to  speculate  upon  its  meaning. 
Gradually,  however,  before  the  evening  fell,  the  ru- 
mor of  a  murder  having  been  committed  spread 
through  the  city,  and  with  that  I  instinctively  con- 
nected the  apparition  of  the  file  of  muddy  soldiers. 
Next  day,  murder  was  in  every  mouth.  My  school- 
fellows talked  of  it  to  the  detriment  of  their  lessons ; 
it  flavored  the  tobacco  of  the  fustian  artisan  as  he 
smoked  to  work  after  breakfast ;  it  walked  on  'Change 
amongst  the  merchants.  It  was  known  that  two  of 
the  persons  implicated  had  been  captured,  but  that 
the  other,  and  guiltiest,  was  still  at  large  ;  and  in  a  few 
days  out  on  every  piece  of  boarding  and  blank  wall 
came  the  "  Hue  and  cry" — describing  Doolan  like  a 


A  Lark's  Flight.  109 

photograph,  to  the  color  and  cut  of  his  whiskers,  and 
offering  £100  as  reward  for  his  apprehension,  or  for 
such  information  as  would  lead  to  his  apprehension  — 
like  a  silent,  implacable  bloodhound  following  close 
on  the  track  of  the  murderer.  This  terrible  broad- 
sheet I  read,  was  certain  that  /le  had  read  it  also,  and 
fancy  ran  riot  over  the  ghastly  fact.  For  him  no  hope, 
no  rest,  no  peace,  no  touch  of  hands  gentler  than  the 
hangman's ;  all  the  world  is  after  him  like  a  roaring 
prairie  of  flame  !  I  thought  of  Doolan,  weary,  foot- 
sore, heart-sore,  entering  some  quiet  village  of  an  even- 
ing ;  and  to  quench  his  thirst,  going  up  to  the  public 
well,  around  which  the  gossips  are  talking,  and  hear- 
ing that  they  were  talking  of  liiin  ;  and  seeing  from  the 
well  itself,  it  glaring  upon  him,  as  if  conscious  of  his 
presence,  with  a  hundred  eyes  of  veng  'ance.  I  thought 
of  him  asleep  in  out-houses,  and  starting  up  in  wild 
dreams  of  the  policeman's  hand  upon  his  shoulder  fifty 
times  ere  morning.  He  had  committed  the  crime  of 
Cain,  and  the  weird  of  Cain  he  had  to  endure.  But 
yesterday  innocent,  how  unimportant ;  to-day  bloody- 
handed,  the  whole  world  is  talking  of  him,  and  every 
thing  ho  touches,  the  very  bed  he  sleeps  on,  steals 
from  him  his  secret,  and  is  eager  to  betray  ! 

Doolan  was  finally  captured  in  T,iverpool,  and  in 
the  Spring  Assize  the  three  men  were  brought  to  trial. 
The  jury  found  them  guilty,  but  recommended  Hickie 
to  mercy  on  account  of  some  supposed  weakness  of 
mind    on    his    part.     Sentence  was,  of   course^  pro- 


110  A  Lark's  Flight. 

nounced  with  the  usual  solemnities.  They  were  set 
apart  to  die  ;  and  when  snug  abed  o'  nights  — for  im- 
agination is  most  might'ly  moved  by  contrast  —  I  crept 
into  their  desolate  hearts,  and  tasted  a  misery  which 
was  not  my  ow-n.  As  already  said,  Hickie  was  rec- 
ommended to  mercy,  and  the  recommendation  was 
ultimately  in  the  proper  quarter  given  effect  to. 

The  evening  before  the  execution  has  arrived,  and 
the  reader  has  now  to  imagine  the  early  May  sunset 
falling  pleasantly  on  the  outskirts  of  the  city.  The 
houses  looking  out  upon  an  open  square  or  space, 
have  little  plots  of  garden  ground  in  their  fronts,  in 
w'hich  mahogany-colored  waU-flowers  and  mealy  au- 
riculas are  growing.  The  side  of  this  square,  along 
which  the  City  Koad  stretches  northward,  is  occupied 
by  a  blind  asylum,  a  brick  building,  the  bricks 
painted  red  and  picked  out  with  white,  after  the  tidy 
English  fashion,  and  a  high  white  cemetery  wall, 
over  which  peers  the  spire  of  the  Gothic  Cathedral ; 
and  beyond  that,  on  the  other  side  of  the  ravine, 
rising  out  of  the  populous  city  of  the  dead,  a  stone 
John  Knox  looks  down  on  the  Cathedral,  a  Bible 
clutched  in  his  outstretched  and  menacing  hand.  On 
all  this  the  May  sunset  is  striking,  dressing  every 
thing  in  its  warm,  pleasant  pink,  lingering  in  the  tufts 
of  foliage  that  nestle  around  the  asylum,  and  dipping 
the  building  itself  one  half  in  light,  one  half  in  ten- 
der shade.  This  open  space  or  square  is  an  excellent 
place  for  the  games   of    us   boys,  and  "  Prisoner's 


A  Lark's  Flight.  Ill 

Base  "  is  being  carried  out  with  as  much  earnestness 
as  the  business  of  life  now  by  those  of  us  who  are 
left.  The  girls,  too,  have  their  games  of  a  quiet 
kind,  which  we  hold  in  huge  scorn  and  contempt.  In 
two  files,  r.nked  arm-in-arm,  they  alternately  dance 
towards  each  other  and  then  retire,  singing  the  while, 
in  their  clear,  girlish  treble,  verses,  the  meaning  and 
pertinence  of  which  time  has  worn  away  — 

"  The  Campsle  Duke's  a-riding,  a-riiling,  a-riding," 

being  the  oft-recumng  "  owercome  "  or  refrain.  All 
this  is  going  on  in  the  pleasant  sunset  light,  when  by 
the  apparition  of  certain  wagons  coming  up  from  the 
city,  piled  high  with  blocks  and  beams,  and  guarded 
by  a  dozen  dragoons,  on  whose  brazen  helmets  the 
sunset  danced,  every  game  is  dismembered,  and  we  are 
in  a  moment  a  mere  mixed  mob  of  boys  and  girls, 
flocking  around  to  stare  and  wonder.  Just  at  this 
place  something  went  wrong  with  one  of  the  wagon 
wheels,  and  the  procession  came  to  a  stop.  A  crowd 
collected,  and  we  heard  some  of  the  grown-up  people 
say,  that  the  scaffold  was  being  carried  out  for  the 
ceremony  of  to-morrow.  Then,  more  intensely  than 
ever,  one  realized  the  condition  of  the  doomed  men. 
We  were  at  our  happy  games  in  the  sunset,  they  were 
entering  on  their  last  night  on  earth.  After  hammer- 
ing and  delay  the  wheel  was  put  to  rights,  the  sunset 
died  oat,  wagons  and  dragoons  got  into  motion  and 
disappeared;  and  all  the  night  through,  whether  awake 


112  A  Lark's  Flight. 

or  asleep,  I  saw  the  torches  burning,  and  heard  the 
hammers  clinking,  and  witnessed  as  clearly  as  if  I  had 
been  an  onlooker,  the  horrid  structure  rising,  till  it 
stood  complete,  with  a  huge  cross-beam  from  which 
two  empty  halters  hung,  in  the  early  morning  light. 

Next  morning  the  whole  city  was  in  commotion. 
Whether  the  authorities  were  apprehensive  that  a 
rescue  would  be  attempted,  or  were  anxious  merely 
to  strike  terror  into  the  hundreds  of  wild  Irishry 
engaged  on  the  railway,  I  cannot  say  ;  in  any  case, 
there  was  a  display  of  military  force  quite  unusual. 
The  carriage  in  which  the  criminals  —  Catholics  both — 
and  their  attendant  priests  were  seated,  was  guarded 
by  soldiers  with  fixed  bayonets :  indeed,  the  whole 
regiment  then  lying  in  the  city  was  massed  in  front 
and  behind,  with  a  cold,  frightful  glitter  of  steel. 
Besides  the  foot  soldiers,  there  were  dragoons,  and  two 
pieces  of  cannon  ;  a  whole  little  army,  in  fact.  With 
a  slenderer  force  battles  have  been  won  which  have 
made  a  mark  in  history.  What  did  the  prisoners 
think  of  their  strange  importance,  and  of  the  tramp 
and  hurly-burly  all  around  ?  When  the  procession 
moved  out  of  the  city,  it  seemed  to  draw  with  it 
almost  the  entira  population ;  and  when  once  the 
country  roads  were  reached,  the  crowds  spread  over 
the  fields  on  either  side,  ruthlessly  treading  down  the 
tender  wheat  braird.  I  got  a  glimpse  of  the  doomed, 
blanched  faces  which  had  haunted  me  so  long,  at  the 
turn  of  the  road,  where,  for  the  first  time,  the  black 


A  Lark's  Flight.  113 

cross-beam  with  its  empty  halters  first  became  visible 
to  them.  Both  turned  and  regarded  it  with  a  long, 
steady  look  ;  that  done,  they  again  bent  their  heads 
attentively  to  the  words  of  the  clergyman.  I  suppose 
in  that  long,  eager,  fascinated  gaze  they  practically 
died  —  that  for  them  death  had  no  additional  bitter- 
ness. When  the  mound  was  reached  on  which  the 
scaffold  stood,  there  was  immense  confusion.  Around 
it  a  wide  space  was  kept  clear  by  the  military ;  the 
cannon  were  placed  in  position ;  out  flashed  the 
swords  of  the  dragoons  ;  beneath  and  around  on  every 
side  was  the  crowd.  Between  two  brass  helmets  I 
could  see  the  scaffold  clearly  enough,  and  when  in 
a  little  while  the  men,  bareheaded  and  with  their 
attendants,  appeared  upon  it,  the  surging  crowd  be- 
came stiffened  with  fear  and  awe.  And  now  it  was 
that  the  incident  so  simple,  so  natural,  so  much  in 
the  ordinary  course  of  things,  and  yet  so  frightful  in 
its  tragic  suggestions,  took  place.  Be  it  remembered 
that  the  season  was  early  May,  that  the  day  was  fine, 
that  the  wheat  fields  were  clothing  themselves  in  the 
green  of  the  young  crop,  and  that  around  the  scaffold, 
standing  on  a  sunny  mound,  a  wide  space  was  kept 
clear.  When  the  men  appeared  beneath  the  beam, 
each  under  his  proper  halter,  there  was  a  dead 
silence,  —  every  one  was  gazing  too  intently  to  whisper 
to  his  neighbor  even.  Just  then,  out  of  the  grassy 
space  at  the  foot  of  the  scaffold,  in  the  dead  silence 
audible  to  all,  a  lark  rose  from  the  side  of  its  nest, 
8 


114  A  Lark's  Flight. 

and  went  singing  upward  in  its  happy  flight.  O 
heaven  !  how  did  that  song  translate  itself  into  dying 
ears  ?  Did  it  bring  in  one  wild  burning  moment 
father,  and  mother,  and  poor  Irish  cabin,  and  prayers 
said  at  bed-time,  and  the  smeU  of  turf-fires,  and 
innocent  sweeth carting,  and  rising  and  setting  suns  ? 
Did  it  —  but  the  dragoon's  horse  has  become  restive, 
and  his  brass  helmet  bobs  up  and  down  and  blots 
every  thing  ;  and  there  is  a  sharp  sound,  and  I  feel 
the  great  crowd  heave  and  swing,  and  hear  it  torn  by 
a  sharp  shiver  of  pity„and  the  men  whom  I  saw  so 
near  but  a  moment  ago  are  at  immeasurable  distance, 
and  have  solved  the  great  enigma,  —  and  the  lark  has 
not  yet  finished  his  flight :  you  can  see  and  hear  him 
yonder  in  the  firinge  of  a  white  May  cloud. 

This  ghastly  lark's  flight,  when  the  circumstances 
are  taken  into  consideration,  is,  I  am  inclined  to 
think,  more  terrible  than  any  thing  of  the  same  kind 
which  I  have  encountered  in  books.  The  artistic 
uses  of  contrast  as  background  and  accompaniment, 
are  well  known  to  nature  and  the  poets.  Joy  is  con- 
tinually worked  on  sorrow,  sorrow  on  joy;  riot  is 
framed  in  peace,  peace  in  riot.  Lear  and  the  Fool  al- 
ways go  together.  Trafalgar  is  being  fought  while  Na- 
poleon is  sitting  on  horseback  watching  the  Austrian 
army  laying  down  its  arms  at  Ulm.  In  Hood's 
poem,  it  is  when  looking  on  the  released  schoolboys 
at  their  games  that  Eugene  Aram  remembers  he  is  a 
murderer.     And  these  two  poor  Irish  laborers  could 


A  Lark's  Flight.  115 

not  die  without  hearing  a  lark  singing  in  their  ears. 
It  is  Nature's  fashion.  She  never  quite  goes  along 
with  us.  She  is  sombre  at  weddings,  sunny  at  funer- 
als, and  she  frowns  on  ninety-nine  out  of  a  hundred 
picnics. 

There  is  a  stronger  element  of  terror  in  this  inci- 
dent of  the  lark  than  in  any  story  of  a  similar  kind  I 
can  remember. 

A  good  story  is  told  of  an  Irish  gentleman  — 
stiU  kno\vn  in  London  society  —  who  inherited  the 
family  estates  and  the  family  banshee.  The  es- 
tates he  lost,  —  no  uncommon  circumstance  in  the 
history  of  Irish  gentlemen,  —  but  the  banshee,  who 
expected  no  favors,  stuck  to  him  in  his  adversity, 
and  crossed  the  channel  with  him,  making  herself 
known  only  on  occasions  of  death-beds  and  sharp 
family  misfortunes.  This  gentleman  had  an  ear,  and, 
seated  one  night  at  the  opera,  the  keen  —  heard  once 
or  twice  before  on  memorable  occasions  —  thrilled 
through  the  din  of  the  orchestra  and  the  passion  of 
the  singers.  He  hurried  home  of  course,  found  his 
immediate  family  well,  but  on  the  morrow  a  tele- 
gram arrived  with  the  announcement  of  a  brother's 
death.  Surely  of  all  superstitions  that  is  the  most 
imposing  which  makes  the  other  world  interested  in 
the  events  which  befall  our  mortal  lot.  For  the  mere 
pomp  and  pride  of  it,  your  ghost  is  worth  a  dozen 
retainers,  and  it  is  entirely  inexpensive.  The  pecu- 
liarity and  supernatural  worth  of  this  story  lies  in  the 


116  A  Lark's  Flight. 

idea  of  the  old  wail  piercing  through  the  sweet  entangle- 
ment of  stringed  instruments  and  extinguishing  Grisi. 
Modern  circumstances  and  luxury  crack,  as  it  were, 
and  reveal  for  a  moment  misty  and  aboriginal  time 
big  with  portent.  There  is  a  ridiculous  Scotch  story 
in  which  one  gruesome  touch  lives.  A  dergjman's 
female  servant  was  seated  in  the  kitchen  one  Satur- 
day night  reading  the  Scriptures,  when  she  was  some- 
what startled  by  hearing  at  the  door  the  tap  and 
■voice  of  her  sweetheart.  Not  expecting  him,  and  the 
hour  being  somewhat  late,  she  opened  it  in  astonish- 
ment, and  was  still  more  astonished  to  hear  him  on 
entering  abuse  Scripture-reading.  He  behaved  alto- 
gether in  an  unprecedented  manner,  and  in  many 
ways  terrified  the  poor  girl.  Ultimately  he  knelt  be- 
fore her,  and  laid  his  head  on  her  lap.  You  can 
fancy  her  consternation  when  glancing  down  she  dis- 
covered that,  instead  of  hair,  the  head  was  covered 
with  the  vioss  of  the  moorland.  By  a  sacred  name 
she  adjured  him  to  tell  who  he  was,  and  in  a  moment 
the  figure  was  gone.  It  was  the  Fiend,  of  course  — 
diminished  sadly  since  Milton  saw  him  bridge  chaos 
—  fallen  from  worlds  to  kitchen- wenches.  But  just 
think  how  in  the  story,  in  half-pity,  in  half-terror,  the 
popular  feeling  of  homlessness,  of  being  outcast, 
of  being  unsheltered  as  waste  and  desert  places, 
has  incarnated  itself  in  that  strange  covering  of  the 
head.  It  is  a  true  supernatural  touch.  One  other 
story  I  have  heard  in  the  misty  Hebrides  :     A  Skye 


A  Lark's  Flight.  117 

gentleman  was  riding  along  an  empty  moorland 
road.  All  at  once,  as  if  it  had  sprung  from  the 
gr-Qund,  the  empty  road  was  crowded  by  a  funeral 
procession.  Instinctively  he  drew  his  horse  to  a  side 
to  let  it  pass,  which  it  did  without  sound  of  voice, 
without  tread  of  foot.  Then  he  knew  it  was  an 
apparition.  Staring  on  it,  he  knew  every  person  who 
either  bore  the  corpse  or  who  walked  behind  as 
mourners.  There  were  the  neighboring  proprietors 
at  whose  houses  he  dined,  there  were  the  members  of 
his  own  kirk-sossion,  there  were  the  men  to  whom  he 
was  wont  to  give  good-morning  when  he  met  them  on 
the  road  or  at  market.  Unable  to  discover  his  own 
image  in  the  throng,  he  was  inwardly  marvelling 
whose  funeral  it  could  be,  when  the  troop  of  spectres 
vanished,  and  the  road  was  empty  as  before.  Then, 
rememberi'"'g  that  the  coffin  had  an  invisible  occu- 
pant, he  cried  out,  "  It  is  my  funeral ! "  and,  with  all 
his  strength  taken  out  of  him,  rode  home  to  die.  All 
these  stories  have  their  own  touches  of  terror  ;  yet  I 
am  inclined  to  think  that  my  lark  rising  from  the 
scaffold  foot,  and  singing  to  two  such  auditors,  is 
more  terrible  than  any  one  of  them. 


CHRISTMAS. 

OVER  the  dial-face  of  the  year,  on  which  the 
hours  are  months,  the  apex  resting  in  sunshine, 
the  base  in  withered  leaves  and  snows,  the  finger  of 
time  does  not  travel  with  the  same  rapidity.  Slowly 
it  creeps  up  from  snow  to  sunshine  ;  when  it  has 
gained  the  summit  it  seems  almost  to  rest  for  a  little  ; 
rapidly  it  rushes  down  from .  sunshine  to  the  snow. 
Judging  from  my  own  feelings,  the  distance  from 
January  to  June  is  greater  than  from  June  to  January 
—  the  period  from  Christmas  to  Midsummer  seems 
longer  than  the  period  from  Midsummer  to  Christ- 
mas. This  feeling  arises,  I  should  fancy,  from  the 
preponderance  of  light  on  that  half  of  the  dial  on 
which  the  finger  seems  to  be  travelling  upwards,  com- 
pared with  the  half  on  which  it  s'?ems  to  be  travelling 
downwards.  This  light  to  the  eye,  the  mind  trans- 
lates into  time.  Summer  days  are  long,  often  weari- 
somely so.  The  long-lighted  days  are  bracketed  to- 
gether by  a  little  bar  of  twilight,  in  which  biit  a  star 
or  two  find  time  to  twinkle.  Usually  one  has  less 
occupation  in  simmer  than  in  winter,  and  the  surplus- 

(118) 


Christmas.  119 

age  of  summer  light,  a  stage  too  large  for  the  play, 
wearies,  oppresses,  sometimes  appalls.  From  the 
sense  of  time  we  can  only  shelter  ourselves  by  oc- 
cupation ;  and  when  occupation  ceases  while  yet 
some  three  or  four  hours  of  light  remain,  the  burden 
falls  down,  and  is  ofte'i  greater  than  we  can  bear. 
Personally,  I  have  a  certain  morbid  fear  of  those 
endless  summer  twilights.  A  space  of  light  stretch- 
ing from  half  past  2  A.M.  to  11  P.  M.  affects  me  with 
a  sense  of  infinity,  of  horrid  sameness,  just  as  the 
sea  or  the  desert  would  do.  I  feel  that  for  too  long 
a  period  I  am  under  the  eye  of  a  taskmaster.  Twi- 
light is  always  in  itself,  or  at  least  in  its  suggestions, 
melancholy  ;  and  these  midsummer  twilights  are  so 
long,  they  pass  through  such  series  of  lovely  change, 
they  are  throughout  so  mournfuUy  beautiful,  that 
in  the  brain  they  beget  strange  thoughts,  and  in 
the  heart  strange  feelings.  We  see  too  much  of  the 
sky,  and  the  long,  lovely,  pathetic,  lingering  even- 
ing light,  with  its  suggestions  of  eternity  and  death, 
which  one  cannot  for  the  soul  of  one  put  into 
words,  is  somewhat  too  much  for  the  comfort  of  a 
sensitive  human  mortal.  The  day  dies,  and  makes 
no  apology  for  being  such  an  unconscionable  time 
in  dying ;  and  all  the  while  it  colors  our  thoughts 
with  its  own  solemnity.  There  is  no  relief  from  this 
kind  of  thing  at  midsummer.  You  cannot  close 
your  shutters  and  light  your  candles ;  that  in  the  tone 
of  mind  which  circumstances   superinduce  would  be 


120  Chrisimas. 

bruteility.  Yon  cannot  take  Pickwick  to  the  window 
and  read  it  by  the  dying  light ;  that  is  profana- 
tion. If  you  have  a  friend  with  you,  you  can't  talk  ; 
the  hour  makes  you  silent.  You  are  driven  in  on 
your  self-consciousness.  The  long  light  wearies  the 
eye,  a  sens  3  of  time  disturbs  and  saddens  the  spirit ; 
and  that  is  the  reason,  I  think,  that  one  half  of  the 
year  seems  so  much  longer  than  the  other  half ;  that 
on  the  dial-plate  whose  hours  are  months,  the  restless 
finger  seems  to  move  more  slowly  when  travelling  up- 
ward from  autumn  leaves  and  snow  to  light,  than 
when  it  is  travelling  downward  from  light  to  snow 
and  withered  leaves. 

Of  all  the  seasons  of  the  year,  I  like  winter  best. 
That  peculiar  burden  of  time  I  have  been  speaking 
of,  does  not  affect  me  now.  The  day  is  short,  and  I 
can  fill  it  with  work  ;  when  evening  comes,  I  have 
my  lighted  room  and  my  books.  Should  black  care 
haunt  me,  I  throw  it  ofi"  the  scent  in  Spenser's  forests, 
or  seek  refuge  from  it  among  Shakspeare's  men  and 
women,  who  are  by  far  the  best  company  I  have  met 
with,  or  am  like  to  meet  with,  on  earth.  I  am  sitting 
at  this  present  moment  with  my  curtains  drawn ;  the 
cheerful  fire  is  winking  at  all  the  furniture  in  the 
room,  and  from  every  leg  and  arm  the  furniture  is 
winking  to  the  fire  in  return.  I  put  off  the  outer  Avorld 
Avith  my  great-coat  and  boots,  and  put  on  contentment 
and  idleness  with  my  slippers.  On  the  hearth-rug. 
Pepper,  coiled  in  a  shaggy  ball,  is  asleep  in  the  ruddy 


Christmas.  121 

light  and  heat.  An  imaginative  sense  of  the  cold 
outside  increases  my  present  comfort — just  as  one 
never  hugs  one's  own  good  luck  so  affectionately  as 
when  listening  to  the  relation  of  some  horrible  mis- 
fortune which  has  overtaken  others.  Wint?r  has  fallen 
on  Dreamthorp,  and  it  looks  as  pretty  Avhen  covered 
with  snow,  as  when  covered  with  apple  blossom. 
Outside,  the  ground  is  hard  as  iron ;  and  over  the  low 
dark  hill,  lo  !  the  tender  radianc3  that  precedes  the 
morn.  Every  window  in  the  little  village  has  its 
light,  and  to  the  traveller  coming  on,  enveloped  in  his 
breath,  the  whole  place  shines  like  a  congregation  of 
glow-worms.  A  pleasant  enough  sight  to  him  if  his 
home  be  th?re !  At  this  present  season,  the  canal  is 
not  such  a  pleasant  promenade  as  it  was  in  summer. 
The  barges  come  and  go  as  usual,  but  at  this  time  I 
do  not  envy  the  bargemen  quite  so  much.  The  horse 
comes  smoking  along ;  the  tarpaulin  which  covers  the 
merchandise  is  sprinkled  with  hoar  frost;  and  the  helms- 
man, smoking  his  short  pipe  for  the  mere  heat  of  it, 
cowers  over  a  few  red  cinders  contained  in  a  frame- 
work of  iron.  The  labor  of  the  poor  fellows  will 
soon  be  over  for  a  time  ;  for  if  this  frost  continues, 
the  canal  will  be  sheathed  in  a  night,  and  next  day 
stones  will  be  thrown  upon  it,  and  a  daring  urchin 
venturing  upon  it  will  go  souse  head  over  heels,  and 
run  home  with  his  teeth  in  a  chatter  ;  and  the  day 
after,  the  lake  beneath  the  old  castle  will  be  sheeted, 
and    th?    next,  the    villagers  will  be  sliding   on    its 


122  Christmas. 

gleaming  face  from  ruddy  d  iwn  at  nine  to  ruddy 
eve  at  thre?  ;  and  hours  later,  sk  iters  yet  unsatis- 
fied will  be  moving  ghost-like  in  the  gloom  —  now 
one,  now  another,  shooting  on  sounding  irons  into 
a  clear  space  of  frosty  light,  chasing  the  moon,  or 
the  flying  image  of  a  star  !  Happy  youths  leaning 
against  the  frosty  wind  ! 

I  am  a  Christian  I  hope,  although  far  from  a  muscu« 
lar  one  —  consequently  I  cannot  join  the  skaters  on 
the  lake.  The  floor  of  ice,  with  the  people  upon  it, 
will  be  but  a  picture  to  me.  And,  in  truth,  it  is  in  its 
pictori  J  aspect  that  I  chiefly  love  the  bleak  season. 
As  an  artist,  Avinter  can  match  summer  any  day. 
The  heavy,  feathery  flakes  have  been  falling  all  the 
night  through,  we  shall  suppose,  and  when  you  get 
up  in  the  morning  the  world  is  draped  in  white. 
What  a  sight  it  is  !  It  is  the  world  you  knew,  but  yet 
a  difierent  one.  The  familiar  look  has  gone,  and 
another  has  taken  its  place ;  and  a  not  impleasant 
puzzlement  arises  in  your  mind,  born  of  the  patent  and 
the  remembered  aspect.  It  reminds  you  of  a  friend 
who  has  been  suddenly  placed  in  new  circumstances, 
in  whom  there  is  much  that  you  recognize,  and  much 
that  is  entirely  strange.  How  purely,  divinely  white 
when  the-  last  snow-flake  has  just  fallen  !  How  ex- 
quisite and  virginal  the  repose  !  It  touches  you  like 
some  perfection  of  music.  And  winter  does  not  work 
only  on  a  broad  scale ;  he  is  careful  in  trifles.  Pluck 
a  single  ivy  leaf  from  the  old  wall,  and  see  what  a 


Christmas.  123 

jeweller  he  is  !  How  he  has  silvered  over  the  dark- 
green  reticulations  with  his  frosts  !  The  fagot  which 
th^  Tramp  gathers  for  his  fire  is  thicklier  incrusted 
with  gems  than  ever  was  sceptre  of  the  Moguls.  Go 
into  the  woods,  and  behold  on  the  black  boughs  his 
glories  of  pearl  and  diamond  —  pendent  splendors 
that,  smitten  by  the  noon-ray,  melt  into  tears  and  fall 
but  to  congeal  into  splendors  again.  Nor  does  he 
work  in  black  and  white  alone.  He  has  on  his 
palette  more  gorgeous  colors  than  those  in  which 
swim  the  summer  setting  suns  ;  and  with  these,  about 
three  o'clock,  he  begins  to  adorn  his  west,  sticking 
his  red  hot  ball  of  a  sun  in  the  very  midst ;  and  a 
couple  of  hours  later,  when  the  orb  has  fallen,  and  the 
flaming  crimson  has  mellowed  into  liquid  orange,  you 
can  see  the  black  skeletons  of  trees  scribbled  upon 
the  melancholy  glory.  Nor  need  I  speak  of  the  mag- 
nificence of  a  winter  midnight,  when  space,  sombre 
blue,  crowded  with  star  and  planet,  "  burnished  by 
the  frost,"  is  glittering  like  the  harness  of  an  arch- 
angel full  panoplied  against  a  battle  day. 

For  years  and  years  now  I  have  watched  the  sea- 
sons come  and  go  around  Dreamthorp,  and  each  in 
its  turn  interests  me  as  if  I  saw  it  for  the  first  time. 
But  the  other  week  it  seems  that  I  saw  the  grain 
ripen  ;  then  by  day  a  motley  crew  of  reapers  were  in 
the  fields,  and  at  night  a  big  red  moon  looked  down 
upon  the  stooks  of  oats  and  barley  ;  then  in  mighty 
wains    the    plenteous    harvest    came    swaying    home, 


124  Christmas. 

leaving  a  largess  on  the  roads  for  every  bird ;  then 
the  round,  yeUow,  comfortable-looking  stacks  stood 
around  the  farm-houses,  hiding  them  to  the  chimneys ; 
then  the  woods  reddened,  the  beech  hedges  became 
russet,  and  every  pufF  of  wind  made  rustle  the  with- 
ered leaves ;  then  the  sunset  came  before  the  early 
dark,  and  in  the  east  lay  banks  of  bleak,  pink  vapor, 
which  are  ever  a  prophecy  of  cold ;  then  out  of  a 
low,  dingy  heaven  came  all  day,  thick  and  silent,  the 
whirling  snoAV  ;  —  and  so  by  exquisite  succession  of 
sight  and  sound  have  I  been  taken  from  the  top  of 
the  year  to  the  bottom  of  it ;  from  midsummer,  Avith 
its  unreaped  harvests,  to  the  night  on  which  I  am 
sitting  here  —  Christmas,  1862. 

Sitting  here,  I  incontinently  find  myself  holding  a 
levee  of  departed  Christmas  nights.  SUently,  and 
without  special  call,  into  my  study  of  imagination 
come  these  apparitions,  clad  in  snowy  mantles, 
brooched  and  gemmed  with  fiosts.  Their  numbers  I 
do  not  care  to  count,  for  I  know  they  are  the  num- 
bers of  my  years.  The  visages  of  two  or  three  are 
sad  enough,  but  on  the  whole  'tis  a  congregation  of 
joUy  ghosts.  The  nostrils  of  my  memory  are  assailed 
by  a  faint  odor  of  plum  pudding  and  burnt  brandy. 
I  hear  a  sound  as  of  light  music,  a  whisk  of  women's 
dresses  whirled  round  in  dance,  a  click  as  of  glasses 
pledged  by  friends.  Before  one  of  these  apparitions 
is  a  moimd,  as  of  a  new-made  grave,  on  which  the 
snow  is  lying.     I  know,  I  know  !     Drape  thyself  not 


Christmas.  125 

in  white  Wke  the  others,  but  in  mourning  stole  of 
crape ;  and  instead  of  dance  music,  let  there  haunt 
around  thee  the  service  for  the  dead !  I  know  that 
sprig  of  Mistletoe,  O  Spirit  in  the  midst !  Under  it 
I  swung  the  girl  I  loved  —  girl  no  more  now  than  I 
am  boy  —  and  kissed  her  spite  of  blush  and  pretty 
shriek.  And  thee,  too,  with  fragrant  trencher  ia 
hand,  over  which  blue  tongues  of  flame  are  playing, 
do  1  know  —  most  ancient  apparition  of  them  all.  I 
remember  thy  reigning  night.  Back  to  verj'  days  of 
childhood  am  I  taken  by  thy  ghostly  raisins  simmer- 
ing in  a  ghostly  brandy  flame.  Where  now  the  merry 
boys  and  girls  that  thrust  their  fingers  in  thy  blaze  ? 
And  now,  when  I  think  of  it,  thee  also  would  I  drape 
in  black  raiment,  around  thee  also  would  I  make  the 
burial  service  murmur. 

Men  hold  the  anniversaries  of  their  birth,  of  their 
marriage,  of  the  birth  of  their  first-born,  and  they 
hold  —  although  they  spread  no  feast,  and  ask  no 
firiends  to  assist  —  many  another  anniversary  besides. 
On  many  a  day  in  every  year  does  a  man  remember 
what  took  place  on  that  self- same  day  in  some  former 
year,  and  chews  the  sweet  or  bitter  herb  of  memory, 
as  the  case  may  be.  Could  I  ever  hope  to  write  a 
decent  Essay,  I  should  like  to  write  one  "  On  the 
Revisiting  of  Places."  It  is  strange  how  important 
the  poorest  human  being  is  to  himself !  how  he  likes 
to  double  back  on  his  experiences,  to  stand  on  the 
place  he  has  stood  on  before,  to  meet  himseK  face  to 


126  Christmas. 

face,  as  it  were !  I  go  to  the  great  city  in  which  my 
early  life  was  spent,  and  I  love  to  indulge  myself  in 
this  whim.  The  only  thing  I  care  about  is  that  por- 
tion of  the  city  which  is  connected  with  myself.  I 
don't  think  this  passion  of  reminiscence  is  debased  by 
the  slightest  taint  of  vanity.  The  lamp-post,  under 
the  light  of  which  in  the  Avinter  rain  there  was  a  part- 
ing so  many  years  ago,  I  contemplate  with  the  most 
curious  interest.  I  stare  on  the  windows  of  the 
houses  in  which  I  once  lived,  with  a  feeling  which  I 
should  find  difficult  to  express  in  words.  I  think  of 
the  life  I  led  there  ;  of  the  good  and  the  bad  news 
that  came ;  of  the  sister  who  died  ;  of  the  brother 
who  was  bom ;  and  were  it  at  all  possible,  I  should 
like  to  knock  at  the  once  familiar  doer,  and  look  at 
the  old  walls  —  which  could  speak  to  me  so  strangely 
—  once  again.  To  revisit  that  city  is  like  walking 
away  back  with  my  yesterdays.  I  startle  myself  with 
myself  at  the  corners  of  streets,  I  confront  forgotten 
bits  of  myself  at  the  entrance  to  houses.  In  windows 
which,  to  another  man,  would  seem  blank  and  mean- 
ingless, I  find  personal  poems  too  deep  to  be  ever 
turned  into  rhymes  —  more  pathetic,  mayhap,  than  I 
have  ever  found  on  printed  page.  The  spot  of  ground 
on  which  a  man  has  stood  is  forever  interesting  to  him. 
Every  experience  is  an  anchor,  holding  him  the  more 
firmly  to  existence.  It  is  for  this  reason  that  we  hold 
our  sacred  days,  silent  and  solitary  anniversaries  of 
joy  and  bitterness,  renewing  ourselves  thereby,  going 


Christmas.  127 

back  upon  ourselves,  living  over  again  the  memorable 
experience.  The  fuU  yeUow  moon  of  next  September 
will  gather  into  itself  the  light  of  the  full,  yellow 
moons  of  Septembers  long  ago.  In  this  Christmas 
night  aU  the  other  Christmas  nights  of  my  life  live. 
How  warm,  breathing,  fuU  of  myself  is  the  yeeir  1862, 
now  almost  gone !  How  bare,  cheerless,  unknown, 
the  year  1863,  about  to  come  in!  It  stretches  before 
me  in  imagination  like  some  great,  gaunt,  untenanted 
ruin  of  a  Colosseum,  in  which  no  footstep  falls,  no 
voice  is  heard ;  and  by  this  night  year  its  naked 
chambers  and  windows,  three  hundred  and  sixty-five 
in  number,  will  be  clothed  all  over,  and  hidden  by 
myself  as  if  with  covering  ivies.  Looking  forward 
into  an  empty  year  strikes  one  with  a  certain  awe, 
because  one  finds  therein  no  recognition.  The  years 
behind  have  a  friendly  aspect,  and  they  are  warmed 
by  the  fires  we  have  kindled,  and  all  their  echoes  are 
the  echoes  of  our  own  voices. 

This,  then,  is  Christmas,  1862.  Every  thing  is 
silent  in  Dreamthorp.  The  smith's  hammer  reposes 
beside  the  anvil.  The  weaver's  flying  shuttle  is  at 
rest.  Through  the  clear,  wintry  sunshine  the  beUs 
this  morning  rang  from  the  gray  church  tower  amid 
the  leafless  elms,  and  up  the  walk  the  villagers  trooped 
in  their  best  dresses  and  their  best  faces  —  the  latter 
a  little  reddened  by  the  sharp  wind :  mere  redness 
in  the  middle  aged ;  in  the  maids,  wonderful  bloom 
to  the  eyes  of  their  lovers  —  and  took  their  places 


128  Christmas. 

decently  in  the  ancient  pews.  The  clerk  read  the 
beautiful  prayers  of  our  Church,  which  seem  mora 
beautiful  at  Christmas  than  at  any  other  period.  For 
that  very  feeling  which  breaks  down  at  this  time  the 
barriers  which  custom,  birth,  or  wealth  have  erected 
between  man  and  man,  strikes  down  the  barrier  of 
time  which  intervenes  between  the  worshipper  of  to- 
day and  the  great  body  of  worshippers  who  are  at  rest 
in  their  graves.  On  such  a  day  as  this,  hearing  these 
prayers,  we  feel  a  kinship  with  the  devout  generations 
who  heard  them  long  ago.  The  devout  lips  of  the 
Christian  dead  murmured  the  responses  which  we 
now  murmur ;  along  this  road  of  prayer  did  their 
thoughts  of  our  innum'^rable  dead,  our  brothers  and 
sisters  in  faith  and  hope,  approach  the  Maker,  even  as 
ours  at  present  approach  Him.  Prayers  over,  the 
clergyman — who  is  no  Boanerges,  or  Chrysostom, 
golden-mouthed,  but  a  loving,  genial-hearted,  pious 
man,  the  whole  extent  of  his  life  from  boyhood  until 
now,  full  of  charity  and  kindly  deeds,  as  autumn  fields 
with  heavy  wheaten  ears  ;  the  clergyman,  I  say  —  for 
the  sentence  is  becoming  unwieldy  on  my  hands,  and 
one  must  double  back  to  secure  connection  —  read  out 
in  that  silvery  voice  of  his,  which  is  sweeter  than  any 
music  to  my  ear,  those  chapters  of  the  New  Testam-nt 
that  deal  with  the  birth  of  the  S;vio;ir.  And  the 
red-faced  rustic  congregation  hung  en  the  good  man's 
voice  as  he  spoke  of  the  Infant  brought  forth  in  a 
manger,  of  the  shining  angels  that  appeared  in  mid- 


Christmas.  129 

air  to  the  shepherds,  of  the  miraculous  star  that  took 
its  station  in  the  sky,  and  of  the  wis  3  men  who  came 
from  afar  and  laid  their  gi.ts  of  frankincense  and 
myrrh  at  the  feet  of  the  child.  With  the  story  every 
one  was  familiar,  but  on  that  day,  and  backed  by  the 
persuasive  melody  of  the  reader's  voice,  it  seemed  to 
all  quite  new  —  at  least,  they  listened  attentively  as  if 
it  were.  The  discourse  that  followed  possessed  no  re- 
markable thoughts  ;  it  dealt  simply  with  the  goodness 
of  the  Maker  of  heaven  and  earth,  and  the  shortness 
of  time,  with  the  duties  of  thankfulness  and  charity  to 
the  poor ;  and  I  am  persuaded  that  every  one  who 
heard  returned  to  his  house  in  a  better  frame  of  mind. 
And  so  the  service  remitted  us  all  to  our  own  homes, 
to  what  roast-beef  and  plum-pudding  slender  means 
permitted,  to  gatherings  around  cheerful  fires,  to  half- 
pleasant,  half- sad  remembrances  of  the  dead  and  the 
absent. 

From  sermon  I  have  returned  like  the  others,  and 
it  is  my  purpose  to  hold  Christmas  alone.  I  have  no 
one  with  me  at  table,  and  my  own  thoughts  must  be 
my  Christmas  guests.  Sitting  here,  it  is  pleasant  to 
think  how  much  kindly  feeling  exists  this  present 
night  in  England.  By  imagination  I  can  taste  of 
every  table,  pledge  every  toast,  silently  join  in  every 
roar  of  merriment.  I  become  a  sort  of  universal 
guest.  With  what  propriety  is  this  jovial  season 
placed  amid  dismal  December  rains  and  snows ! 
How  one  pities  the  unhappy  Australians,  with  whom 
9 


130  Christmas. 

every  thing  is  turned  topsy-turvy,  and  who  hold  Christ- 
mas at  midsummer !  The  fac3  of  Christmas  glows 
all  the  brighter  for  the  cold.  The  heart  warms  as  the 
frost  increases.  Estrangements  which  have  imbit- 
tered  the  whole  year,  melt  in  to-night's  hospitable 
smile.  There  are  warmer  hand-shakings  on  this  night 
than  during  the  bypast  twelve  months.  Friend  lives 
in  the  mind  of  frisnd.  There  is  more  charity  at  this 
time  than  at  any  other.  You  get  up  at  midnight  and 
toss  your  spare  coppers  to  the  half-benumbed  mu- 
sicians whiffling  beneath  your  windows,  although 
at  any  other  time  you  would  consider  their  per- 
formance a  nuisance,  and  call  angrily  for  the  police. 
Poverty,  and  scanty  clothing,  and  tireless  grates, 
come  home  at  this  season  to  the  bosoms  of  the 
rich,  and  they  give  of  their  abundance.  The  very 
red  breast  of  the  woods  enjoys  his  Christmas  feast. 
Good  feeling  incarnat:s  itself  in  plum-pudding.  The 
Master's  words,  "  The  poor  ye  have  always  with  you," 
wear  at  this  time  a  deep  significance.  For  at  least 
one  night  on  each  year  over  all  Christendom  there  is 
brotherhood.  And  good  men,  sitting  amongst  their 
families,  or  by  a  solitary  fire  like  me,  when  they  re- 
member the  light  that  shone  over  the  poor  clowns 
huddling  on  the  Bethlehem  plains  eighteen  hundred 
years  ago,  the  apparition  of  shining  angels  overhead, 
the  song  "  Peace  on  earth  and  good-will  toward  men," 
which  for  the  first  time  hallowed  the  midnight  air,  — 
pray  for  that  strain's  fulfilment,  that  battle  and  strife 


Christmas.  131 

may  vex  the  nations  no  more,  that  not  only  on 
Christmas-eve,  but  the  whole  year  round,  men  shall 
be  brethren,  owning  one  Father  in  heaven. 

Although  suggested  by  the  season,  and  by  a  soK- 
tary  dinner,  it  is  not  my  purpose  to  indulge  in  per- 
sonal reminiscence  and  talk.  Let  all  that  pass.  This 
is  Christmas-day,  the  anniversary  of  the  world's  great- 
est event.  To  one  day  all  the  early  world  looked 
forward  ;  to  the  same  day  the  later  world  looks  back. 
That  day  holds  time  together.  Isaiah,  standing  on 
the  peaks  of  prophecy,  looked  across  ruined  empires 
and  the  desolations  of  many  C3nturies,  and  saw  on 
the  horizon  the  new  star  arise,  and  was  glad.  On 
this  night  eighteen  hundred  years  ago,  Jove  was  dis- 
crowned, the  Pagan  heaven  emptied  of  its  divinities, 
and  Olympus  left  to  the  solitude  of  its  snows.  On  this 
night,  so  many  hundred  years  bygone,  the  despairing 
voice  was  heard  shrieking  on  the  ^gean,  "  Pan  is 
dead,  great  Pan  is  dead !  "  On  this  night,  according 
to  the  fine  reverence  of  the  poets,  all  things  that  blast 
and  blight  are  powerless,  disarmed  by  sweet  influ- 
ences :  — 

"  Some  say  that  ever  'gainst  the  season  comes 
Wherein  our  Saviour's  birtli  is  celebrated 
The  bird  of  dawning  singeth  all  night  long ; 
And  then  they  say  no  spirit  dares  stir  abroad ; 
The  nights  are  wholesome  ;  then  no  planets  strike  ; 
No  fairy  takes,  nor  witch  hath  power  to  charm  : 
So  hallowed  and  so  gracious  is  the  time." 

The  flight  of  the  Pagan  mythology  before  the  new 
faith  has  been  a  favorito  subject  with  the  poets  ;  and 


132  Christmas. 

it  has  been  my  custom  for  many  seasons  to  read 
Milton's  "  Hymn  to  the  Nativity  "  on  the  evening  of 
Christmas-day.  The  bass  of  heaven's  deep  organ 
seems  to  blow  in  the  lines,  and  slowly  and  with  many 
echoes  the  strain  melts  into  silence.  To  my  ear  the 
lines  sound  like  the  full-voiced  choir  and  the  rolling 
organ  of  a  cathedral,  when  the  afternoon  light  stream- 
ing through  the  painted  windows  fills  the  place  with 
solemn  colors  and  masses  of  gorgeous  gloom.  To- 
night I  shall  float  my  lonely  hours  away  on  music :  — 

"  The  oracles  are  dumb, 
No  voice  or  hideous  hum 
Buns  through  tlie  arclied  roof  in  words  deceiving : 
Apollo  from  his  shrine 
Can  no  more  divine 
With  hollow  shriek  the  steep  of  Delphos  leaving. 
No  nig-htly  trance  or  breathed  spell 
Inspires  the  pale-eyed  priest  from  the  prophetic  cell. 

"  The  lonely  mountains  o'er, 
And  the  resounding-  sliore, 
A  voice  of  weeping  heard  and  loud  lament : 
From  haunted  spring,  and  dale 
Edged  with  poplars  pale, 
The  parting  genius  is  with  sighing  sent : 
With  flower-enwoven  tresses  torn 
The  nymphs  in  twilight  shades  of  tangled  thickets  mourn. 

"  Peor  and  Baalim 
Forsake  their  temples  dim 
With  that  twice-batt«red  god  of  Palestine  ; 
And  mooned  Ashtaroth, 
Heaven's  queen  and  mother  both. 
Now  sits  not  girt  with  tapers'  holy  sliine '. 
The  Lybic  Hammon  shrinks  his  horn. 
In  vain  the  Tyrian  maids  their  wounded  Thammuz  mourn 

"  And  sullen  Moloch,  fled. 
Hath  left  in  shadows  dread 
His  burning  idol,  all  of  blackest  hue : 


Christmas.  133 

In  vain  with  cymbals'  ring 
They  call  the  grisly  king 
In  dismal  dance  about  the  furnace  blue  : 
The  brutish  gods  of  Nile  as  fast, 
Isis,  and  Orus,  and  the  dog  Anubis  haste. 

"  lie  feels  from  Juda's  land 
The  dreaded  Infant's  hand, 
The  rays  of  Bethlehem  blind  his  dusky  eyne : 
Nor  all  the  gods  beside 
Dare  longer  there  abide. 
Not  Typhon  huge  ending  in  snaky  twine. 
Our  Babe  to  shew  His  Godhead  true 
Can  in  His  swaddling  bands  control  the  damned  crew." 

These  verses,  as  if  loath  to  die,  linger  with  a  certain 
persistence  in  mind  and  ear.  This  is  the  "  mighty 
line "  which  critics  talk  about !  And  just  as  in  an 
infant's  face  you  may  discern  the  rudiments  of  the 
future  man,  so  in  the  glorious  hymn  may  be  traced 
the  more  majestic  lineaments  of  tho  "  Paradise  Lost." 

Strangely  enough,  the  next  noblest  dirge  for  the 
unrealmed  divinities  which  I  can  call  to  remembrance, 
and  at  the  same  time  the  most  eloquent  celebration 
of  the  new  power  and  prophecy  of  its  triumph,  has 
been  uttered  by  Shelley,  who  cannot  in  any  sense  be 
termed  a  Christian  poet.  It  is  one  of  the  choruses  in 
"  Hellas,"  and  perhaps  had  he  lived  longer  amongst 
us,  it  would  have  b^en  the  prelude  to  higher  strains. 
Of  this  I  am  certain,  that  before  his  death  the  mind 
of  that  brilliant  gonius  was  rapidly  changing,  —  that 
for  him  the  cross  was  gathering  attractions  round 
it,  —  that  the  wall  which  he  complained  had  been 
built  up  between  his  heart  and  his  intellect  was  being 
broken    down,  and    that  rays  of   a  strange  splendor 


134  Christmas. 

were  already  streaming  upon  him  through  the  in- 
terstices. What  a  contrast  between  the  darkened 
glory  of  "  Queen  Mab"  —  of  which  in  after-life  he  was 
ashamed,  both  as  a  literary  work  and  as  an  expression 
of  opinion  —  and  the  intense,  clear,  lyrical  light  of  this 
triumphant  poem !  — 

"  A  power  from  the  unknown  God, 
A  Promethean  conqueror  c.ime : 
Like  a  triumphal  path  he  trod 
Tlie  thorns  of  death  and  shame. 

A  mortal  shape  to  him 

Whs  like  the  vapor  dim 
Wiiicli  the  orient  planet  animates  with  light. 

Hell,  sin,  and  slavery  came 

Like  bloodhounds  mild  and  tame, 
Nor  preyed  until  their  lord  had  taken  flight. 

The  moon  of  Mahomet 

Arose,  and  it  shall  set ; 
While  blazoned,  as  on  heaven's  immortal  noon, 
The  Cross  leads  generations  on. 

"  Swift  as  the  radiant  shapes  of  sleep. 
From  one  whose  dreams  are  paradise. 
Fly,  when  the  fond  wretch  wakes  to  weep, 
And  day  peers  forth  with  her  blank  eyes  : 

So  fleet,  so  faint,  so  fair. 

The  powers  of  earth  and  air 
Fled  from  the  folding  star  of  Bethlehem. 

Apollo,  Pan.  and  Love, 

And  even  Olympian  Jove, 
Grew  weak,  for  killing  Truth  had  glared  on  them. 

Our  hills,  and  seas,  and  streams. 

Dispeopled  of  their  dreams. 
Their  waters  turned  to  blood,  their  dew  to  tears. 
Wailed  for  the  golden  years." 

For  my  own  part,  I  cannot  read  these  lines  without 
emotion  —  not  so  much  for  their  beauty  as  for  the 
change  in  the  writer's  mind  which  they  suggest.  The 
self-sacrifice  which  lies  at  the  centre  of  Christianity 


Christmas.  135 

should  have  touched  this  man  more  deeply  than 
almost  any  other.  That  it  was  beginning  to  touch 
and  mould  him,  I  verily  believe.  He  died  and  made 
that  sign.  Of  what  music  did  that  storm  in  Spezia 
Bay  rob  the  world  ! 

"  The  Cross  leads  generations  on."  Believing  as  I 
do  that  my  own  personal  decease  is  not  more  certain 
than  that  our  religion  will  subdue  the  world,  I  own 
that  it  is  with  a  somewhat  saddened  heart  that  I 
pass  my  thoughts  around  the  globe,  and  consider 
how  distant  is  yet  that  triumph.  There  are  the 
realms  on  which  the  crescent  beams,  the  monstrous 
many-headed  gods  of  Indi  i,  the  Chinaman's  heathen- 
ism, the  African's  devil-rites.  These  are,  to  a  large 
extent,  principalities  and  powers  of  darkness  with 
Avhich  our  religion  has  never  been  brought  into 
collision,  save  at  trivial  and  far  separated  points, 
and  in  these  cases  the  attack  has  never  been  made 
in  strength.  But  what  of  our  own  Europe  —  the 
home  of  philosophy,  of  poetry,  and  painting  ?  Eu- 
rope, which  has  produced  Greece,  and  Rome,  and 
England's  centuries  of  glory  ;  which  has  been  illu- 
mined by  the  fires  of  martyrdom  ;  which  has  heard  a 
Luther  preach  ;  which  has  listened  to  Dante's  "  mys- 
tic unfathomable  song  ;  "  to  which  Milton  has  opened 
the  door  of  heaven  —  what  of  it?  And  what,  too,  of 
that  younger  America,  starting  in  its  career  with  all 
our  good  things,  and  enfranchised  of  many  of  our 
evils  ?     Did  not  the  December  sun  now  shining  look 


136  Christmas. 

down  on  thousands  slaughtered  at  Fredericksburg,  in 
a  most  mad,  most  incomprehensible  quarrel  ?  And  is 
not  the  public  air  which  European  nations  breathe 
at  this  moment,  as  it  has  been  for  several  years 
back,  charged  with  thunder  ?  Despots  are  plotting, 
ships  are  building,  man's  ingenuity  is  bent,  as  it 
never  was  bent  before,  on  the  invention  and  im- 
provemont  of  instruments  of  death;  Europo  is  bris- 
tling with  five  millions  of  bayonets  :  and  this  is  the 
condition  of  a  world  for  which  the  Son  of  God  died 
more  than  eighteen  hundred  years  ago  !  There  is  no 
mystery  of  Providence  so  inscrutable  as  this  ;  and 
yet,  is  not  the  very  sense  of  its  mournfalne  :s  a 
proof  that  the  spirit  of  Christianity  is  living,  in  the 
minds  of  men  ?  For,  of  a  verity,  military  glory  is 
becoming  in  our  best  thoughts  a  bloody  rag,  and  con- 
quest the  first  in  the  catalogue  of  mighty  crimes,  and  a 
throned  tyrant,  with  armies,  and  treasures,  and  the 
cheers  of  millions  rising  up  like  a  cloud  of  incense 
around  him,  but  a  mark  for  the  thunderbolt  of  Almigh- 
ty God  —  in  reality  poorer  than  Lazarus  stretched  at 
the  gate  of  Dives.  Besides,  all  these  things  are  getting 
themselves  to  some  extent  mitigated.  Florence  Night- 
ingale —  for  the  first  time  in  the  history  of  the  world 
—  walks  through  the  Scutari  hospitals,  and  "  poor, 
noble,  wounded,  and  sick  men,"  to  use  her  Majesty's 
tender  phrases,  kiss  her  shadow  as  it  falls  on  them. 
The  Emperor  Napoleon  does  not  make  war  to  employ 
his  armies,  or  to  consolidate  his  power ;  he  does  so 


Chi'istmas.  137 

for  the  sake  of  an  "  idea,"  more  or  less  generous  and 
disinterested.  The  soul  of  mankind  would  revolt  at 
the  blunt,  naked  truth  ;  and  the  taciturn  emperor 
knows  this,  as  he  knows  most  things.  This  imperial 
hypocrisy,  like  evry  other  hypocrisy,  is  a  homage 
which  vice  pays  to  virtue.  There  cannot  be  a  doubt 
that  when  the  politicd  crimes  of  kings  and  govem- 
m"nts,  the  sores  that  f:?stcr  in  the  heart  of  society, 
and  all  "  the  burden  of  ths  unintelligible  world," 
weigh  heaviest  on  the  mind,  we  have  to  thank  Chris- 
tianity for  it.  That  pure  light  makes  visible  the  dark- 
ness. The  Sermon  on  the  Mount  makes  the  morality 
of  the  nations  ghastly.  The  Divine  love  makes 
human  hate  stand  out  in  dark  relief.  This  sadness, 
in  the  essence  of  it  nobler  than  any  j  jy,  is  the  heri- 
tage of  the  Christian.  An  ancient  Roman  could  not 
have  folt  so.  Every  thing  runs  on  smoothly  enough 
so  long  as  Jove  wields  the  thunder.  But  Venus,  Mars, 
and  Minerva  are  far  behind  us  now  ;  the  cross  is  be- 
fore us  ;  and  self-denial  and  soitow  for  sin,  and  the 
remembrance  of  the  poor,  and  the  cleansing  of  our 
own  hearts,  are  duties  incumbent  upon  every  one  of 
us.  If  the  Christian  is  less  happy  than  the  Pagan, 
and  at  times  I  think  he  is  so,  it  arises  from  the  re- 
proach of  the  Christian's  unreached  ideal,  and  from  the 
stings  of  his  finer  and  more  scrupulous  conscience. 
His  whole  moral  organization  is  finer,  and  he  must 
pay  the  noble  penalty  of  finer  organizations. 

Once  again,  for  the  purpose  of  taking  away  all  soli- 


138  Christmas. 

tariness  of  feeling,  and  of  connocting  mysolf,  albeit 
only  in  fancy,  with  tlie  proper  gladnoss  of  tho  time, 
let  me  think  of  the  comfortable  family  dinners  now 
being  drawn  to  a  clos3,  of  the  good  wishes  uttered, 
and  the  presents  made,  quite  valueless  in  themselves, 
yet  felt  to  be  invaluable  from  the  fjelings  from  which 
they  spring ;  of  the  little  children,  by  sweetmeats 
lapped  in  Elysium;  and  of  the  pantomime,  pleasantest 
Christmas  sight  of  all,  with  the  pit  a  sea  of  grin- 
ning delight,  the  boxes  a  tier  of  beaming  juvenility, 
the  galleries,  piled  up  to  the  far-receding  roof,  a  mass 
of  happy  laughter  which  a  clown's  joke  brings  down 
in  mighty  avalanches.  In  t':e  pit,  sober  people  relax 
themselves,  and  suck  oran  .;e.5,  and  quaff  ginger-pop  ; 
in  the  boxes.  Miss,  gazing  through  her  curls,  thinks 
the  Fairy  Prince  the  prettiest  creature  she  ever  beheld, 
and  Master,  that  to  be  a  clown  must  be  the  pinnacle 
of  human  happiness  :  while  up  in  the  galleries  the 
hard  literal  world  is  for  an  hour  sponged  out  and 
obliterated;  the  chimney-sweep  forgets,  in  his  de- 
light when  the  policeman  comes  to  grief,  the  harsh 
call  of  his  master,  and  Cinderella,  when  the  demons 
are  foiled,  and  the  long-parted  lovers  meet  and  em- 
brace in  a  paradise  of  light  and  pink  gauze,  the 
grates  that  must  be  scrubbed  to-morrow.  All  bands 
and  trappings  of  toil  are  for  one  hour  loosened 
by  the  hands  of  imaginative  sympathy.  What  hap- 
piness a  single  theatre  can  contain  !  And  those  of 
maturer  years,  or  of   more  meditative  temperament, 


Christmas.  139 

sitting  at  the  pantomime,  can  extract  out  of  the  shift- 
ing scenes  meanings  suitable  to  themselves  ;  for  the 
pantomime  is  a  symbol  or  adumbration  of  human 
life.  Have  we  not  all  known  Harlequin,  who  rules 
the  roast,  and  has  the  pretty  Columbine  to  him- 
self? Do  we  not  all  know  that  rogue  of  a  clown 
with  his  peculating  fingers,  who  brazens  out  of  every 
scrape,  and  who  conquers  the  world  by  good  humor 
and  ready  wit  ?  And  have  we  not  seen  Pantaloons 
not  a  few,  whose  fate  it  is  to  get  all  the  kicks  and 
lose  all  the  halfpence,  to  fall  through  all  the  trap 
doors,  break  their  shins  over  all  the  barrows,  and  be 
fjrever  captured  by  the  policoman,  while  the  true 
pilferer,  the  clown,  makes  his  escape  with  the  booty 
in  his  possession  ?  Methinks  I  know  the  realities  of 
which  these  things  are  but  the  shadows  ;  have  met 
with  them  in  business,  have  sat  with  them  at  dinner. 
But  to-night  no  such  notions  as  these  intrude  ;  and 
when  the  torrent  of  fun,  and  transformation,  and 
practical  joking  which  rushed  out  of  the  beautiful 
fairy  world,  is  in  the  beautiful  fairy  world  gathered 
up  again,  the  high-heaped  happiness  of  the  theatre 
will  disperse  itse'f,  and  the  Christmas  pantomime 
will  be  a  pleasant  memory  the  whole  year  through. 
Thousands  on  thousands  of  people  are  having  their 
midriffs  tickled  at  this  moment ;  in  fancy  I  see  their 
lighted  faces,  in  memory  I  hear  their  mirth. 

By  this  time  I  should  think  every  Christm  .s  dinner 
at    Dreamthorp  or    elsewhere   has    come  to   an   end. 


140  Christmas. 

Even  now  in  the  great  cities  the  theatres  will  be  dis- 
persing. The  clown  has  wiped  the  paint  off  his  face. 
Harlequin  has  laid  aside  his  wand,  and  divested  him- 
self of  his  glittering  raiment ;  Pantaloon,  aftsr  refresh- 
ing himself  with  a  pint  of  porter,  is  rubbing  his  aching 
joints  ;  and  Columbine,  wrapped  up  in  a  shawl,  and 
with  sleepy  eyelids,  has  gone  home  in  a  cab.  Soon, 
in  the  great  theatre,  the  lights  will  be  put  out,  and 
the  empty  stage  will  be  left  to  ghosts.  Hark  I  mid- 
night from  the  church  tower  vibrates  through  the 
frosty  air.  I  look  out  on  the  brilliant  heaven,  and  see 
a  milky  way  of  powdery  splendor  wandering  through 
it,  and  clusters  and  knots  of  stars  and  planets  shining 
serenely  in  the  blue  frosty  spaces ;  and  the  armed 
apparition  of  Orion,  his  spear  pointing  away  into 
immeasurable  space,  gleaming  overhead  ;  and  the 
familiar  constellation  of  the  Plough  dipping  do^vn 
into  the  west ;  and  I  think  when  I  go  in  again  that 
there  is  one  Christmas  the  less  between  me  and  my 
grave. 


MEN  OF  LETTERS. 

MR.  HAZLITT  has  written  many  pleasant  essays, 
but  none  phasanter  than  that  entitled  "  My 
First  Acquaintance  with  Poets,"  which,  in  the  edition 
edited  by  his  son,  opens  the  Wintersloe  series.  It  re- 
lates almost  entirely  to  Coleridge  ;  containing  sketches 
of  his  personal  ap]:)earance,  fragments  of  his  conver- 
sation, and  is  filled  with  a  young  man's  generous 
enthusiasm,  belief,  admiration,  as  with  sunrise.  He 
had  met  Coleridge,  walked  with  him,  talked  with  him, 
and  the  high  intellectual  experience  not  only  made 
him  better  acquainted  with  his  own  spirit  and  its 
folded  powers,  but  —  as  is  ever  the  case  with  such 
spiritual  encounters  —  it  touched  and  illuminated  the 
dead  outer  world.  The  road  between  Wem  and 
Shrewsbury  was  familiar  enough  to  Hazlitt,  but  as  the 
twain  passed  along  it  on  that  winter  day,  it  became 
etherealized,  poetic  —  wonderful,  as  if  leading  across 
the  Delectable  Mountains  to  the  Golden  City,  whose 
gleam  is  discernible  on  the  horizon.  The  milestones 
were  mute  with  attention,  the  pines  upon  the  hill  had 
ears  for  the  stranger  as  he  passed.     Eloquence  made 

141 


142  Men  of  Letters. 

the  red  leaves  rustle  on  the  oak ;  made  the  depth  of 
heaven  seem  as  if  swept  by  a  breath  of  spring  ;  and 
when  the  evening  star  appeared,  Hazlitt  saw  it  as 
Adam  did  while  in  Paradise  and  but  one  day  old. 
"  As  we  passed  along,"'  writes  the  essayist,  "  between 
Wem  and  Shrewsbury,  and  I  eyed  the  blue  hill  tops 
seen  through  the  wintry  branches,  or  the  red,  rustling 
leaves  of  the  sturdy  oik-trees  by  the  wayside,  a  sound 
was  in  my  ears  as  of  a  sirens  song.  I  was  stunned, 
startled  with  it  as  from  deep  sleep ;  but  I  had  no 
notion  that  I  should  ever  be  able  to  express  my  ad- 
miration to  others  in  motley  imagery  or  quaint  allusion, 
till  the  light  of  his  genius  shone  into  my  soul,  like  the 
sun's  rays  glittering  in  the  puddles  of  the  roid.  I 
was  at  that  time  dumb,  inarticulate,  helpless,  like  a 
worm  by  the  wayside,  crushed,  bleeding,  lifeless ;  but 
now,  bursting  from  the  deadly  bands  that  bound  them, 
my  ideas  float  on  winged  words,  and  as  they  expand 
their  plumes,  catch  the  golden  light  of  other  years. 
My  soul  has  indeed  remained  in  its  original  bondage, 
dark,  obscure,  with  longings  infinite  and  unsatisfied ; 
my  heart,  shut  up  in  the  prison-house  of  this  rude  clay, 
has  never  found,  nor  will  it  ever  find,  a  heart  to  speak 
to ;  but  that  my  understanding  also  did  not  remain 
dumb  and  brutish,  or  at  length  found  a  language  to 
express  itself,  I  owe  to  Coleridge."  Time  and  sorrow, 
personal  ambition  thwarted  and  fruitlessly  driven  ba -k 
on  itself,  hopes  for  the  world  defeated  and  rnre  ilized, 
changed  the  enthusiastic  youth  into  a  petulant,  unsocial 


Men  of  Letters.  143 

man  ;  yet  ever  as  he  remembered  that  meeting  and 
hi«  wintry  walk  from  Wem  to  Shrewsbury  the  early 
glow  came  back,  and  again  a  "  sound  was  in  his  ears 
as  of  a  siren's  song." 

We  are  not  all  hero-worshippers  like  Hazlitt,  but 
most  of  us  are  so  to  a  large  extent.  A  large  propor- 
tion of  mankind  feel  a  quite  peculiar  interest  in  famous 
writers.  They  like  to  read  about  them,  to  know  what 
they  said  on  this  or  the  other  occasion,  what  sort  of 
house  they  mhabited,  what  fashion  of  dress  they  wore, 
if  they  liked  any  particular  dish  for  dinner,  what  kind 
of  women  they  fell  in  love  with,  and  whether  their 
domestic  atmosphere  was  stormy  or  the  reverse. 
Concerning  such  men  no  bit  of  information  is  too 
trifling  ;  every  thing  helps  to  make  out  the  mental 
image  we  have  dimly  formed  for  ourselves.  And  this 
kind  of  interest  is  heightened  by  the  artistic  way  in 
which  time  occasionally  groups  them.  The  race  is 
gregarious,  they  are  visible  to  us  in  clumps  like  prim- 
roses, they  are  brought  into  neighborhood  and  flash 
light  on  each  other  like  gems  in  a  diadem.  We 
think  of  the  wild  geniuses  who  came  up  from  the 
universities  to  London  in  the  dawn  of  the  English 
drama.  Greene,  Nash,  Marlow  —  our  first  profes- 
sional men  of  letters  — how  they  cracked  their  satirical 
whips,  how  they  brawled  in  taverns,  how  pinched 
they  were  at  times,  how,  when  they  possessed  money, 
they  flung  it  from  them  as  if  it  were  poison,  with  what 
fierce  speed  they  wrote,   how  they  shook  the  stage. 


144  Men  of  Letters. 

Then  we  think  of  the  "  Mermaid "  in  session, 
with  Shakspeare's  bland,  oval  face,  the  light  of  a 
smile  spread  over  it,  and  Ben  Jonson's  truculent 
visage,  and  Beaumont  and  Fletcher  sitting  together 
in  their  beautiful  friendship,  and  fancy  as  best  we 
can  the  drollery,  the  repartee,  the  sage  sentences, 
the  lightning  gleams  of  wit,  the  thunder-peals  of 
laughter. 

"  What  things  have  we  seen 
Done  at  the  Mermaid  ?    Heard  words  that  hath  been 
So  nimble,  and  so  full  of  subtle  flame, 
As  if  that  every  one  from  wlience  they  came 
Had  meant  to  put  his  whole  soul  in  a  jest. 
And  had  resolved  to  live  a  fool  the  rest 
Of  his  dull  life." 

Then  there  is  the  "  Literary  Club,"  with  Johnson,  and 
Garrick,  and  Burke,  and  Reynolds,  and  Goldsmith 
sitting  in  perpetuity  in  Boswell.  The  Doctor  has  been 
talking  there  for  a  hundred  years,  and  there  will  he 
talk  for  many  a  hundred  more.  And  we  of  another 
generation,  and  with  other  things  to  think  about,  can 
enter  any  night  we  please,  and  hear  what  is  going  on. 
Then  we  have  the  swarthy  ploughman  from  AjTshire 
sitting  at  Lord  Monboddo's  with  Dr.  Blair,  Dugald 
Stewart,  Henry  Mackenzie,  and  the  rest.  These  went 
into  the  presence  of  the  wonderful  rustic  thoughtlessly 
enough,  and  now  they  cannot  return  even  if  they 
would.  They  are  defrauded  of  oblivion.  Not  yet 
have  they  tasted  forgetfulncss  and  the  grave.  Ths 
day  may  come  when  Burns  shall  be  forgotten,  but  till 


Men  of  Letters.  145 

that  day  arrives  —  and  the  eastern  sky  as  yet  gives  no 
token  of  its  approach  —  h'uti  they  must  attend  as  satel- 
lites the  sun,  as  courtiers  their  king.  Then  there  are 
the  Lakers,  —  Wordsworth,  Coleridge,  Southey,  De 
Quincey  burdened  with  his  tremendous  dream,  Wilson 
in  his  splendid  youth.  What  talk,  what  argument, 
what  readings  of  lyrical  and  other  ballads,  what  con- 
tempt of  critics,  what  a  hail  of  fine  things  !  Then 
there  is  Charles  Lamb's  room  in  Inner  Temple  Lane, 
the  hush  of  a  whist  table  in  one  corner,  the  host 
stuttering  puns  as  he  deals  the  cards ;  and  sitting 
round  about.  Hunt,  whose  every  sentence  is  flavored 
with  the  hawthorn  and  the  primrose,  and  Hazlitt 
maddened  by  Waterloo  and  St.  Helena,  and  Godwin 
with  his  wild  theories,  and  Kemble  with  his  Roman 
look.  And  before  the  morning  comes,  and  Lamb 
stutters  yet  more  thickly  —  for  there  is  a  slight  flavor 
of  pvmch  in  the  apartment  —  what  talk  there  has  been 
of  Hogarth's  prints,  of  Isaac  Walton,  of  the  old  dram- 
atists, of  Sir  Thomas  Browne's  "  Urn  Burial,"  with 
Elias  quaint  humor  breaking  through  every  in- 
terstice, and  flowering  in  every  fissure  and  cranny 
of  the  conversation !  One  likes  to  think  of  these 
social  gatherings  of  wits  and  geniuses ;  they  are  more 
interesting  than  conclaves  of  kings  or  convocations  of 
bishops.  One  would  like  to  have  been  the  waiter 
at  the  "  Mermaid,"  and  to  have  stood  behind  Shak- 
spearo's  chair.  What  was  that  functionary's  opinion 
of  his  guests  ?  Did  he  listen  and  become  witty  by 
10 


146  Men  of  Letters. 

infection  ?  or  did  he,  when  his  task  was  over,  retire 
unconcernedly  to  chalk  up  the  tavern  score  ?  One 
en\'ies  somewhat  the  damsel  who  brought  Lamb  the 
spirit-case  and  the  hot  water.  I  think  of  these  meet- 
ings, and,  in  lack  of  companionship,  frame  for  myself 
imaginary  conversations  —  not  so  brilliant,  of  course, 
as  Mr.  Landor's,  but  yet  sufficient  to  make  pleasant 
for  me  the  twilight  hour  while  the  lamp  is  yet  unlit, 
and  my  solitary  room  is  filled  with  the  ruddy  lights 
and  shadows  of  the  fire. 

Of  human  notabilities  men  of  letters  are  the  most 
interesting,  and  this  arises  mainly  from  their  out- 
spokenness as  a  class.  The  writer  makes  himself 
known  in  a  way  that  no  other  man  makes  himself 
known.  The  distinguished  engineer  may  be  as  great 
a  man  as  the  distinguished  writer,  but  as  a  rule  we 
know  little  about  him.  We  see  him  invent  a  locomo- 
tive, or  bridge  a  strait,  but  there  our  knowledge  stops  ; 
we  look  at  the  engine,  we  walk  across  the  bridge,  we 
admu-e  the  ingenuity  of  the  one,  we  are  grateful  for 
the  conveniency  of  the  other,  but  to  our  apprehen- 
sions the  engineer  is  undeciphered  all  the  while. 
Doubtless  he  reveals  himself  in  his  work  as  the  poet 
reveals  himself  in  his  song,  but  then  this  revelation  is 
made  in  a  tongue  unknown  to  the  majority.  After  all, 
we  do  not  feel  that  we  get  nearer  him.  The  man  of 
letters,  on  the  other  hand,  is  outspoken,  he  takes  you 
into  his  confidence,  he  keeps  no  secret  from  you.  Be 
you  beggar,  be  you  king,  you  are  welcome.     He  is  no 


31en  of  Letters.  147 

respecter  of  persons.  He  gives  without  reserve  his 
fancies,  his  wit,  his  wisdom  ;  he  makes  you  a  present 
of  all  that  the  painful  or  the  happy  years  have  brought 
him.  The  writer  makes  his  reader  heir  in  full.  Men 
of  letters  are  a  peculiar  class.  They  are  never  com- 
monplace or  prosaic  —  at  least  those  of  them  that 
mankind  care  for.  They  are  airy,  wise,  gloomy,  me- 
lodious spirits.  They  give  us  the  language  we  speak, 
they  furnish  the  subjects  ( f  our  best  talk.  They  are 
full  of  generous  impulses  and  sentiments,  and  keep 
the  world  young.  They  have  said  fine  things  on  every 
phase  of  human  experience.  The  air  is  full  of  their 
voices.  Their  books  are  the  world's  holiday  and 
playground,  and  into  these  neither  care,  nor  the  dun, 
nor  despondency,  can  follow  the  enfranchised  man. 
Men  of  letters  forerun  science  as  the  morning  star 
the  dawn.  Nothing  has  been  invented,  nothing  has 
been  achieved,  but  has  gleamed  a  bright-colored 
Utopia  in  the  eyes  of  one  or  the  other  of  these  men. 
Several  centuries  before  the  Great  Exhibition  of  1851 
rose  in  Hyde  Park,  a  wondrous  hall  of  glass  stood, 
radiant  in  sunlight,  in  the  verse  of  Chaucer.  The 
electric  telegraph  is  not  so  swift  as  the  flight  of  Puck. 
We  have  not  yet  realized  the  hippogi-ifF  of  Ariosto. 
Just  consider  Avhat  a  world  this  would  be  if  ruled  by 
the  best  thoughts  of  men  of  letters !  Ignorance 
would  die  at  once,  war  would  cease,  taxation  would 
be  lightened ;  not  only  every  Frenchman,  but  every 
man   in  the  world,  would  have  his  hen  in  the  pot. 


148  Men  of  Letters. 

May  woiJd  not  marry  January.  The  race  of  lawyers 
and  physicians  would  be  extinct.  Fancy  a  world, 
the  affairs  of  which  are  directed  by  Goethe's  wisdom 
and  Goldsmith's  heart!  In  such  a  case,  methinks 
the  millennium  were  already  come.  Books  are  a 
finer  world  within  the  world.  With  books  are  con- 
nected all  my  desires  and  aspirations.  When  I  go  to 
my  long  sleep,  on  a  book  wiU  my  head  be  pillowed. 
I  care  for  no  other  fashion  of  greatness.  I'd  as  lief 
not  be  remembered  at  all  as  remembered  in  connec- 
tion with  any  thing  else.  I  would  rather  be  Chirles 
Lamb  than  Charles  XII.  I  would  rather  be  remem- 
bered by  a  song  than  by  a  victory.  I  would  rather 
build  a  fine  sonnet  than  have  built  St.  Paul's.  I 
would  rather  be  the  discoverer  of  a  new  image  than 
the  discoverer  of  a  new  planet.  Fine  phr.ises  I  value 
more  than  bank  notes.  I  have  ear  for  no  other  har- 
mony than  tho  harmony  of  words.  To  be  occasion- 
ally quoted  is  the  only  fame  I  care  for. 

But  what  of  tlie  literary  life  ?  How  fares  it  with 
the  men  whose  days  and  nights  are  dovoted  to  the 
writing  of  books  ?  We  know  the  famous  men  of 
letters  ;  we  give  them  the  highest  place  in  our  regards ; 
we  crown  them  with  laurels  so  thickly  that  we  hide 
the  fuiTows  on  thoir  foreheads.  Yet  we  must  remem- 
ber that  there  are  men  of  letters  who  have  been 
equally  sanguine,  equally  ardent,  who  have  pursued 
perfection  equally  uns?lfishly,  but  who  have  failed  to 
make  themselves  famous.     We  know  the  ships  that 


Men  of  Letters.  149 

come  with  streaming  pennons  into  the  immortal 
ports  ;  we  know  but  little  of  the  ships  that  have 
gone  on  fire  on  the  way  thither,  —  that  have  gone 
down  at  sea.  Even  with  successful  men  we  cannot 
know  precisely  how  matters  have  gone.  We  read 
the  fine  raptures  of  the  poet,  but  we  do  not  know  into 
what  kind  of  being  he  relapses  when  the  inspiration 
is  over,  any  more  than,  seeing  and  hearing  the  lark 
shrilling  at  the  gate  of  heaven,  we  know  with  what 
effort  he  has  climbed  thither,  or  into  what  kind  of 
nest  it  must  descend.  The  lark  is  not  always  sing- 
ing ;  no  more  is  the  poet.  The  lark  is  only  interest- 
ing ivhile  singing ;  at  other  times  it  is  but  a  plain, 
brown  bird.  We  may  not  be  able  to  recognize  the 
poet  when  he  doffs  his  singing  robes ;  he  may  then 
sink  to  the  level  of  his  admirers.  We  laugh  at  the 
fancies  of  the  humorist,  but  he  may  have  written  his 
brilliant  things  in  a  dismal  enough  mood.  The  writer 
is  not  continually  dwelling  amongst  the  roses  and 
lilies  of  life,  he  is  not  continually  uttering  generous 
sentiments,  and  saying  fine  things.  On  him,  as  on 
his  brethren,  the  world  presses  with  its  prosaic  needs. 
He  has  to  make  love  and  marry,  and  run  the  usual 
matrimonial  risks.  The  income-tax  collector  visits 
him  as  well  as  others.  Around  his  head  at  Christmas 
times  drives  a  snow-storm  of  bills.  He  must  keep 
the  wolf  from  the  door,  and  he  has  only  his  goose- 
quills  to  confront  it  with.  And  here  it  is,  having  to 
deal  with  alien  powers,  that  his  special  temperament 


150  Men  of  Letters. 

comes  into  play,  and  may  work  him  evil.  Wit  is  not 
worldly  wisdom.  A  man  gazing  on  the  stars  is  pro- 
verbially at  the  mercy  of  the  puddles  on  the  road.  A 
man  m:iy  be  able  to  disentangle  intricate  problems,  be 
able  to  recall  the  past,  and  yet  be  cozened  by  an  or- 
dinary knave.  The  finest  expression  wiU  not  liqui- 
date a  butcher's  account.  If  Apollo  puts  his  name  to 
a  bill,  he  must  meet  it  when  it  becomes  due,  or  go 
into  the  gazette.  Armies  are  not  always  cheering  on 
the  heights  which  they  have  won ;  there  are  forced 
marches,  occasional  shortness  of  provisions,  bivouacs 
on  muddy  plains,  driving  in  of  pickets,  and  the  like, 
although  these  inglorious  items  are  forgotten  when  we 
read  the  roll  of  victories  inscribed  on  their  b.mners. 
The  books  of  the  great  wTiter  are  only  portions  of  the 
great  writer.  His  life  acts  on  his  writings  ;  his  writ- 
ings react  on  his  life.  His  life  may  impoverish  his 
books  ;  his  books  may  impoverish  his  life. 

"  Apollo's  branch  that  might  have  grown  full  straight," 

may  have  the  worm  of  a  vulgar  misery  gnawing  at 
its  roots.  The  heat  of  inspiration  may  be  subtracted 
from  the  household  fire  ;  and  those  who  sit  by  it  may 
bs  the  colder  in  consequence.  A  man  may  put  all 
his  good  things  in  his  books,  and  leave  none  for 
his  life,  just  as  a  man  may  expend  his  fortune  on 
a  splendid  dress,  and  carry  a  pang  of  hunger  be- 
neath it. 

There  are   few  less   exhilarating   books   than   the 


Men  of  Letters.  151 

biographies  of  men  of  letters,  and  of  artists  gen- 
erally ;  and  this  arises  from  the  pictm-es  of  compara- 
tive defeat  which,  in  almost  every  instance,  such  books 
contain.  In  these  books  we  see  failure  more  or  less, 
—  seldom  clear,  victorious  effort.  If  the  art  is  ex- 
quisite, the  marble  is  flawed ;  if  the  marble  is  pure, 
there  is  defect  in  art.  There  is  always  something 
lacking  in  the  poem  ;  there  is  always  irremediable 
defect  in  the  picture.  In  the  biography  we  see  per- 
sistent, passionate  effort,  and  almost  constant  repulse. 
If,  on  the  whole,  victory  is  gained,  one  wing  of  the 
army  has  been  thrown  into  confusion.  In  the  life  of 
a  successful  farmer,  for  instance,  one  feels  nothing  of 
this  kind  ;  his  year  flows  on  harmoniously,  fortunately : 
through  ploughing,  seed-time,  growth  of  grain,  the 
yellowing  of  it  beneath  meek  autumn  suns  and  big 
autumn  moons,  the  cutting  of  it  down,  riotous  harvest- 
home,  final  sale,  and  large  balance  at  the  banker's. 
From  the  point  of  view  of  almost  unvarying  success 
the  farmer's  life  becomes  beautiful,  poetic.  Every 
thing  is  an  aid  and  help  to  him.  Nature  puts  her 
shoulder  to  his  wheel.  He  takes  the  winds,  the  clouds, 
the  sunbeams,  the  rolling  stars  into  partnership,  and, 
asking  no  dividend,  they  let  him  retain  the  entire 
profits.  As  a  rule,  the  lives  of  men  of  letters  do  not 
flow  on  in  this  successful  way.  In  their  case,  there  is 
always  either  defect  in  the  soil  or  defect  in  the  hus- 
bandry. Like  the  Old  Guard  at  Waterloo,  they  are 
fighting  bravely  on  a  lost  field.     In  literary  biography 


152  Men  of  Letters. 

there  is  always  an  element  of  tragedy,  and  the  love 
we  bear  the  dead  is  mingled  with  pity.  Of  course  the 
life  of  a  man  of  letters  is  more  perilous  than  the  life 
of  a  farmer  ;  more  perilous  than  almost  any  other  kind 
of  life  which  it  is  given  a  human  ^being  to  conduct. 
It  is  more  difficult  to  obtain  the  mastery  over  spiritual 
ways  and  means  than  over  material  ones,  and  he  must 
command  hoth.  Properly  to  conduct  his  life,  he  must 
not  only  take  large  crops  off  his  fields,  he  must  also 
leave  in  his  fields  the  capacity  of  producing  large 
crops.  It  is  easy  to  drive  in  your  chariot  two  horses 
of  one  breed  ;  not  so  easy  when  the  one  is  of  terres- 
trial stock,  the  other  of  celestial ;  in  every  respect 
different  —  in  color,  temper,  and  pace. 

At  the  outset  of  his  career,  the  man  of  letters  is 
confronted  by  the  fact  that  he  must  live.  The  ob- 
taining of  a  livelihood  is  preliminary  to  every  thing 
else.  Poets  and  cobblers  are  placed  on  the  same  level 
so  far.  If  the  writer  can  barter  MSS.  for  sufficient 
coin,  he  may  proceed  to  develop  himself;  if  he  cannot 
so  barter  it,  there  is  a  speedy  end  of  himself,  and  of 
his  development  also.  Literature  has  become  a  profes- 
sion ;  but  it  is  in  several  respects  different  from  the 
professions  by  which  other  human  beings  earn  their 
bread.  The  man  of  letters,  unlike  the  clergyman,  the 
physician,  or  the  lawyer,  has  to  undergo  no  special 
preliminary  training  for  his  work,  and  while  engaged 
in  it,  unlike  the  professional  persons  named,  he  has 
no   accredited  status.     Of  course,  to  earn  any  sue- 


Men  of  Letters.  153 

cess,  he  must  start  with  as  much  special  knowledge, 
Avith  as  much  dexterity  in  his  craft,  as  your  ordinary 
physician  ;  but  then  he  is  not  recognized  till  once 
he  is  successful.  When  a  man  takes  a  physician's  de- 
gree, he  has  done  something ;  when  a  man  betakes 
himself  to  literary  pursuits,  he  has  done  nothing — till 
once  he  is  lucky  enough  to  make  his  mark.  There  is 
no  special  preliminary  training  for  men  of  letters, 
and,  as  a  consequence,  their  ranks  are  recruited  from 
the  vagrant  talent  of  the  world.  Men  that  break 
loose  from  the  professions,  who  stray  from  the 
beaten  tracks  of  life,  take  refuge  in  literature.  In 
it  are  to  be  found  doctors,  lawyers,  clergymen,  and 
the  motley  nation  of  Bohemians.  Any  one  possessed 
of  a  nimble  brain,  a  quire  of  paper,  a  steel-pen  and 
ink-bottle,  can  start  business.  Any  one  who  chooses 
may  enter  the  lists,  and  no  questions  are  asked 
concerning  his  antecedents.  The  battle  is  won  by 
sheer  strength  of  brain.  From  all  this  it  comes  that 
the  man  of  letters  has  usually  a  history  of  his  own  : 
his  individuality  is  more  pronounced  than  the  indi- 
viduality of  other  men  ;  he  has  been  knocked  about  by 
passion  and  circumstance.  All  his  life  he  has  had  a 
dislike  for  iron  rules  and  common-place  maxims. 
There  is  something  of  the  gypsy  in  his  nature.  He  is 
to  some  extent  eccentric,  and  he  indulges  his  eccen- 
tricity. And  the  misfortunes  of  men  of  letters  —  the 
vulgar  and  patent  misfortunes,  I  mean  —  arise  mainly 
from  the  want  of  harmony  between  their  impulsive- 


154  Men  of  Letters. 

ness  and  volatility,  and  the  staid  unmercurial  world 
with  which  they  are  brought  into  conflict.  They  are 
unconventional  in  a  world  of  conventions ;  they  are 
fanciful,  and  are  constantly  misunderstood  in  prosaic 
relations.  They  are  wise  enough  in  their  books,  for 
there  they  are  sovereigns,  and  can  shape  every  thing  to 
their  own  likings ;  out  of  their  books,  they  are  not 
unfrequently  extremely  foolish,  for  they  exist  then  in 
the  territory  of  an  alien  power,  and  are  constantly 
knocking  their  heads  against  existing  orders  of  things. 
Men  of  letters  take  prosaic  men  out  of  themselves  ; 
but  they  are  weak  where  the  prosaic  men  are 
strong.  They  have  their  own  way  in  the  world  of 
ideas,  prosaic  men  in  the  world  of  facts.  From  his 
practical  errors  the  ^vriter  learns  something,  if  not 
always  humility  and  amendment.  A  memorial  flower 
grows  on  every  spot  where  he  has  come  to  grief;  and 
the  chasm  he  cannot  over-leap  he  bridges  with  a  rain- 
bow. 

But  the  man  of  letters  has  not  only  to  live,  he  has  to 
develop  himself ;  and  his  earning  of  money  and  his  in- 
tellectual development  should  proceed  simult  meously 
and  in  proportionate  degrees.  Herein  lies  the  main 
difficulty  of  the  literary  life.  Out  of  his  thought  the 
man  must  bring  fire,  food,  clothing ;  and  fire,  food, 
clothing  must  in  their  turns  subserve  thought.  It  is 
necessary,  for  the  proper  conduct  of  such  a  life,  that 
whUe  the  balance  at  the  banker's  increases,  intellectual 
resource  should  increase  at  the  same  ratio.     Progress 


Men  of  Letters.  155 

should  not  be  made  in  the  faculty  of  expression 
alone,  —  progress  at  the  same  time  should  he  made  in 
thought ;  for  thought  in  the  material  on  which  expres- 
sion feeds.  Should  sufficient  advance  not  be  made  in 
this  last  direction,  in  a  short  time  the  man  feels  that 
he  has  expressed  himself,  —  that  now  he  can  only  more 
or  less  dexterously  repeat  himself,  —  more  or  less  pret- 
tily become  his  own  echo.  It  is  comparatively  easy  to 
acquire  facility  in  writing;  but  it  is  an  evU  thing  for 
the  man  of  letters  when  such  facility  is  the  only  thing 
he  has  acquired,  —  when  it  has  been,  perhaps,  the 
only  thing  he  has  striven  to  acquire.  Such  miscalcu- 
lation of  ways  and  means  suggests  vulgarity  of  aspira- 
tion, and  a  fatal  material  taint.  In  the  life  in  which 
this  error  has  been  committed  there  can  be  no  proper 
harmony,  no  satisfaction,  no  spontaneous  delight  in 
effort.  The  man  does  not  create,  —  he  is  only  desper- 
ately keeping  up  appearances.  He  has  at  once  become 
"  a  base  mechanical,"  and  his  successes  are  not  much 
higher  than  the  successes  of  the  acrobat  or  the  rope- 
dancer.  This  want  of  proper  relationship  between 
resources  of  expression  and  resources  of  thought,  or 
subject-matter  for  expression,  is  common  enough,  and 
some  slight  suspicion  of  it  flashes  across  the  mind  at 
times  in  reading  even  the  best  authors.  It  lies  at  the 
bottom  of  every  catastrophe  in  the  literary  life.  Fre- 
quently a  man's  first  book  is  good,  and  all  his  after 
productions  butvfaint  and  yet  fainter  reverberations  of 
the  first.     The  men  who  act  thus  are  in  the  long  run 


156  Men  of  Letters. 

deserted  like  workcd-out  mines.  A  man  reaches  his 
limits  as  to  thought  long  before  he  reaches  his  limits 
as  to  expression  ;  and  a  haunting  suspicion  of  this  is 
one  of  the  peculiar  bitters  of  the  literary  life.  Hazlitt 
tells  us  that,  after  one  of  his  early  interviews  with 
Coleridge,  he  sat  down  to  his  Essay  on  the  Natural 
Disinterestedness  of  the  Human  Mind.  "  I  sat  down 
to  the  task  shortly  afterwards  for  the  twentieth  time, 
got  new  pens  and  paper,  determined  to  make  clean 
work  of  it,  wrote  a  few  sentences  in  the  skeleton  style 
of  a  mathematical  demonstration,  stopped  half-way 
down  the  second  page,  and,  after  trying  in  vain  to 
pump  up  any  words,  images,  notions,  apprehensions, 
facts,  or  observations,  from  that  gulf  of  abstraction  in 
which  I  had  plunged  myself  for  four  or  five  years  pre- 
ceding, gave  up  the  attempt  as  labor  in  vain,  and  shed 
tears  of  hopeless  despondency  on  the  blank  unfinished 
paper.  I  can  write  fast  enough  now.  Am  I  better  than 
I  was  then?  oh  no!  One  truth  discovered,  one  pnng  of 
regret  at  not  being  able  to  express  it,  is  worth  all  the 
fluency  and  flippancy  in  the  world."  This  regretful 
looking  back  to  the  past,  when  emotions  were  keen  and 
sharp,  and  when  thought  w'ore  the  novel  dress  of  a 
stranger,  and  this  dissatisfaction  wdth  the  acquirements 
of  the  present,  is  common  enough  with  the  man  of  let- 
ters. The  years  have  come  and  gone,  and  he  is  con- 
scious that  he  is  not  intrinsically  richer, — he  has  only 
learned  to  assort  and  display  his  riches  to  advantage. 
His    wares   have    neither    increased  in  quantity  nor 


Men  of  Letters.  157 

improved  in  quality,  —  he  has  only  procured  a  win- 
dow in  a  leading  thoroughfare.  He  can  catch  his 
butterflies  more  cunningly,  he  can  pin  them  on  his 
cards  more  skilfully,  but  their  wings  are  fingered 
and  tawdry  compared  with  the  time  when  they  win- 
nowed before  him  in  the  sunshine  over  the  meadows 
of  youth.  This  species  of  regret  is  peculiar  to  the 
class  of  which  I  am  speaking,  and  they  often  discern 
failure  in  what  the  world  counts  success.  The  veteran 
does  not  look  back  to  the  time  when  he  was  in  the 
awkward  squad ;  the  accountant  does  not  sigh  over 
the  time  when  he  was  bewildered  by  the  mysteries  of 
double-entry.  And  the  reason  is  obvious.  The 
dexterity  which  time  and  practice  have  brought  to  the 
soldier  and  the  accountant  is  pure  gain  :  the  dexterity 
of  expression  which  time  and  practice  have  brought 
to  the  -writer  is  gain  too,  in  its  way,  but  not  quite  so 
pure.  It  may  have  been  cultivated  and  brought  to  its 
degree  of  excellence  at  the  expense  of  higher  things. 
The  man  of  letters  lives  by  thought  and  expression, 
and  his  two  powers  may  not  be  perfectly  balanced. 
And,  putting  asidj  its  efiect  on  the  reader,  and  through 
that,  on  the  writer's  pecuniary  prosperity,  the  tragedy 
of  want  of  equipoise  lies  in  this.  When  the  writer 
expresses  his  thought,  it  is  immediately  dead  to  him, 
however  life-giving  it  may  be  to  others  ;  he  pauses 
midway  in  his  career,  he  looks  back  over  his  uttered 
past  —  brown  desert  to  him,  in  which  there  is  no  sus- 
tenance —  he  looks  forward    to  th j  green  M?mttered 


158  Men  of  Letters. 

future,  and  beholding  its  naiTow  limits,  knows  it  is  all 
that  he  can  call  his  own,  —  on  that  vivid  strip  he  must 
pasture  his  intellectual  life. 

Is  the  literary  life,  on  the  whole,  a  happy  oie  ? 
Granted  that  the  writer  is  productive,  that  he  possess- 
es abvindance  of  material,  that  he  has  s:;cured  the  ear 
of  the  world,  one  is  inclined  to  fancy  that  no  life  could 
be  happier.  Such  a  man  seems  to  live  on  the  finest 
of  the  wheat.  If  a  poet,  he  is  continually  singing  ;  if 
a  novelist,  he  is  supreme  in  his  ideal  world  ;  if  a 
humorist,  every  thing  smiles  back  upon  his  smile ;  if 
an  essayist,  he  is  continually  saying  the  wisest,  most 
memorable  things.  He  breathes  habitually  the  se- 
rener  air  which  ordinary  mortals  can  only  at  intervals 
respire,  and  in  their  happiest  moments.  Such  concep- 
tions of  great  writers  are  to  some  extent  erroneous. 
Through  the  medium  of  their  books  we  know  them 
only  in  their  active  mental  states,  —  in  their  tri- 
umphs ;  we  do  not  see  them  when  sluggishness  has  suc- 
ceeded the  effort  which  was  delight.  The  statue  docs 
not  come  to  her  white  limbs  all  at  once.  It  is  the 
bronze  wrestler,  not  the  flesh  and  blood  one,  that  stands 
forever  over  a  fallen  adversary  with  the  pride  of  victory 
on  his  face.  Of  the  labor,  the  weariness,  the  self- 
distrust,  the  utter  despondency  of  the  great  writer,  we 
know  nothiiig.  Then,  for  the  attainment  of  mere 
happiness  or  contentment,  any  hijh  faculty  of  imagi- 
nation is  a  questionable  help.  Of  course  imagination 
lights  the  torch  of  joy,  it  deepens  the  carmine  on  the 


Men  of  Letters.  159 

sleek  cheek  of  the  girl,  it  makes  wine  sparkle,  makes 
music  speak,  gives  rays  to  the  rising  sun.  But  in  all 
its  supreme  sweetnesses  there  is  a  perilous  admixture 
of  deceit,  which  is  suspected  even  at  the  moment  when 
the  senses  tingle  keenliest.  And  it  must  be  remem- 
bered that  this  potent  faculty  can  darken  as  Avell  as 
brighten.  It  is  the  very  soul  of  pain.  While  the 
trumpets  are  blowing  in  Ambition's  ear,  it  whispers 
of  the  grave.  It  drapes  Death  in  austere  solem- 
nities, and  surrounds  him  with  a  gloomy  court  of 
terrors.  The  life  of  the  imaginative  man  is  never  a 
common-place  one  :  his  lights  are  brighter,  his  glooms 
are  darker,  than  the  lights  and  glooms  of  the  vulgar. 
His  ecstasies  are  as  restless  as  his  pains.  The  great 
writer  has  this  perilous  faculty  in  excess  ;  and  through 
it  he  will,  as  a  matter  of  course,  draw  out  of  the 
atmosphere  of  circumstance  surrounding  him  the 
keenness  of  pleasure  and  pain.  To  my  own  notion, 
the  best  gifts  of  the  gods  are  neither  the  most  glitter- 
ing nor  the  most  admired.  These  gifts  I  take  to  be, 
a  moderate  ambition,  a  taste  for  repose  with  circum- 
stances favorable  thereto,  a  certain  mildness  of 
passion,  an  even-beating  pulse,  an  even-beating  heart. 
I  do  not  consider  heroes  and  celebrated  persons  the 
happiest  of  mankind.  I  do  not  envy  Alexander  the 
shouting  of  his  armies,  nor  Dante  his  laurel  wreath. 
Even  were  I  able,  I  would  not  purchase  these  at  the 
prices  the  poet  and  the  warrior  paid.  So  far,  then, 
as  great  writers  —  gi-eat  poets,  especially  —  areof  im- 


160  Men  of  Letters. 

agination  all  compact  —  a  peculiarity  of  mental  consti- 
tution which  makes  a  man  go  shares  with  every  one  he 
is  brought  into  contact  with  ;  which  makes  him  enter 
into  Romeo's  rapture  when  he  touches  Juliet's  check 
among  cypresses  silvered  by  the  Verona  moonlight, 
and  the  stupor  of  the  blinded  and  pinioned  wretch  on 
the  scaffold  before  the  bolt  is  drawn  —  so  far  as  this 
special  gift  goes,  I  do  not  think  the  great  poet,  —  and 
by  virtue  of  it  he  is  a  poet,  —  is  likely  to  be  happier 
than  your  more  ordinary  mortal.  On  the  whole,  per- 
haps, it  is  the  great  readers  rather  than  the  great 
writers  who  are  entirely  to  be  envied.  They  pluck 
the  fruits,  and  are  spared  the  trouble  of  rearing  them. 
Prometheus  filched  fire  from  heaven,  and  had  for 
reward  the  crag  of  Caucasus,  the  chain,  the  vulture ; 
while  they  for  whom  he  stole  it  cook  their  suppers 
upon  it,  stretch  out  benumbed  hands  towards  it,  and 
see  its  light  reflected  in  their  children's  faces.  They 
are  comfortable :  he,  roofed  by  the  keen  crystals  of 
the  stars,  groans  above. 

Trifles  make  up  the  happiness  or  the  misery  of 
mortal  life.  The  majority  of  men  slip  into  their 
graves  without  having  encountered  on  their  way 
thither  any  signal  catastrophe  or  exaltation  of  fortune 
or  feeling.  Collect  a  thousand  ignited  sticks  into  a 
heap,  and  you  have  a  bonfire  which  may  be  seen 
over  three  counties.  If,  during  thirty  years,  the  an- 
noyances connected  with  shirt-buttons  found  missing 
when    you    arc    hurriedly  dressing    for  dinner,  were 


Men  of  Letters.  161 

gathered  into  a  mass  and  endured  at  once,  it  would 
be  misery  equal  to  a  public  execution.  If,  from  the 
same  space  of  time,  all  the  little  titillations  of  a  man's 
vanity  were  gathered  into  one  lump  of  honey  and 
enjoyed  at  once,  the  pleasure  of  being  crowned 
would  not  perhaps  be  much  greater.  If  the  equanim- 
ity of  an  ordinary  man  be  at  the  mercy  of  trifles, 
how  much  more-  will  the  equanimity  of  the  man  of 
letters,  who  is  usually  the  most  sensitive  of  the  race, 
and  whose  peculiar  avocation  makes  sad  work  with 
the  fine  tissues  of  the  nerves.  Literary  composition 
is,  I  take  it,  with  the  exception  of  the  crank,  in  which 
there  is  neither  hope  nor  result,  the  most  exhausting 
to  which  a  human  being  can  apply  himself.  Ju^t  con- 
sider the  situation.  Here  is  your  man  of  letters, 
tender-hearted  as  Cowper,  who  would  not  count  upon 
h'.s  list  of  friends  the  man  who  tramples  heedlessly 
upon  a  worm  ;  as  light  of  sleep  and  abhorrent  of  noise 
as  Beattie,  who  denounces  chanticleer  for  his  lusty 
proclamation  of  morning  to  his  own  and  the  neigh- 
boring farmyards  in  terms  that  would  be  unmeasured 
if  applied  to  Nero ;  as  alive  to  blame  as  Byron,  who 
declared  that  the  praise  of  the  greatest  of  the  race 
could  not  take  the  sting  from  the  censure  of  the 
meanest.  Fancy  the  sufferings  of  a  creature  so  Wiilt 
and  strung  in  a  world  which  creaks  so  vilely  on  its 
hinges  as  this !  Will  such  a  man  confront  a  dun  with 
an  imperturbable  countenance  ?  Will  he  throw  him- 
self back  in  his  chair  and  smile  blandly  when  his 
11 


162  Men  of  Letters. 

chamber  is  lanced  through  and  through  by  the  notes 
of  a  street  bagpiper  ?  When  his  harassed  brain  should 
be  solaced  by  music,  will  he  listen  patiently  to  stupid 
remarks?  I  fear  not.  The  man  of  letters  suffers 
keenlier  than  people  suspect  from  sharp,  cruel  noises, 
from  witless  observations,  from  social  misconceptions 
of  him  of  every  kind,  from  hard  utilitarian  wisdom, 
and  from  his  own  good  things  going  to  the  grave 
unrecognized  and  unhonored.  And,  forced  to  live 
by  his  pen,  to  extract  from  his  brain  bread  and  beer, 
clothing,  lodging,  and  income-tax,  I  am  not  sur- 
prised that  he  is  oftentimes  nervous,  querulous,  im- 
patient. Thinking  of  these  things,  I  do  not  wonder 
at  Hazlitt's  spleen,  at  Charles  Lamb's  punch,  at 
Coleridge's  opium.  I  think  of  the  days  spent  in 
writing,  and  of  the  nights  which  repeat  the  day  in 
dream,  and  in  which  there  is  no  refreshment.  I  think 
of  the  brain  which  must  be  worked  out  at  length ;  of 
Scott,  when  the  wand  of  the  enchanter  was  broken, 
writing  poor  romances  ;  of  Southey  sitting  vacantly  in 
his  library,  and  drawing  a  feeble  satisfaction  from  the 
faces  of  his  books.  And  for  the  man  of  letters  there  is 
more  than  the  mere  labor :  he  writes  his  book,  and 
has  frequently  the  mortification  of  seeing  it  neglected 
or^torn  to  pieces.  Above  all  men,  he  longs  for  sym- 
pathy, recognition,  applause.  He  respects  his  fellow- 
creature,  because  he  beholds  in  him  a  possible  reader. 
To  write  a  book,  to  send  it  forth  to  the  world  and  the 
critics,  is  to  a  sensitive  person  like  plunging  mother- 


3Ien  of  Letters.  163 

naked  into  tropic  waters  where  sharks  abound.  It  is 
true  that,  like  death,  the  terror  of  criticism  lives  most 
in  apprehension  ;  still,  to  have  been  frequently  criti- 
cised, and  to  be  constantly  liable  to  it,  are  disagreeable 
items  in  a  man's  life.  Most  men  endure  criticism  with 
commendable  fortitude,  just  as  most  criminals  when 
under  the  drop  conduct  themselves  with  calmness. 
They  bleed,  but  they  bleed  inwardly.  To  be  flayed  in 
the  Saturday  Review,  for  instance,  —  a  whole  amused 
public  looking  on, — is  far  from  pleasant;  and,  after 
the  operation,  the  ordinary  annoyances  of  life  probably 
magnify  themselves  into  tortures.  The  grasshopper 
becomes  a  .burden.  Touch  a  flayed  man  ever  so 
lightly,  and  with  ever  so  kindly  an  intention,  and  he 
is  sure'  to  wince.  The  skin  of  the  man  of  letters  is 
peculiarly  sensitive  to  the  bite  of  the  critical  mos- 
quito ;  and  he  lives  in  a  climate  in  which  such  mos- 
quitoes swarm.  He  is  seldom  stabbed  to  the  heart  — 
he  is  often  killed  by  pin-pricks. 

But,  to  leave  palisade  and  outwork,  and  come  to 
the  interior  of  the  citadel,  it  may  be  said  that  great 
writers,  although  they  must  ever  remain  shining  objects 
of  regard  to  us,  are  not  exempted  from  ordinary  limita- 
tions and  conditions.  They  are  cabined,  cribbed, 
confined,  even  as  their  more  prosaic  brethren.  It  is 
in  the  nature  of  every  man  to  be  imbued  with  that  he 
works  in.  Thus,  in  course  of  time,  the  merchant  be- 
comes bound  up  in  his  ventures  and  his  ledger  ;  an 
indefinable  flavor  of  the  pharmacopoeia  lingers  about 


164  Men  of  Letters. 

the  physician  ;  the  bombazine  and  horse-hair  of  the 
lawyer  eat  into  his  soul  —  his  experiences  are  docketed 
in  a  clerkly  hand,  bound  together  with  red  tape,  and 
put  away  in  professional  pigeon-holes.  A  man  natu- 
rally becomes  leavened  by  the  profession  which  he 
has  adopted.  He  thinks,  speaks,  and  dreams  "  shop," 
as  the  colloquial  phrase  has  it.  Men  of  letters  are 
affected  by  their  profession  just  as  merchants,  phy- 
sicians, and  lawyers  are.  In  course  of  time  the  inner 
man  becomes  stained  with  ink,  like  blotting-paper. 
The  agriculturist  talks  constantly  of  bullocks  —  the 
man  of  letters  constantly  pf  books.  The  printing- 
press  seems  constantly  in  his  immediate  neighbor- 
hood. He  is  stretched  on  the  rack  of  an  unfavorable 
review,  —  he  is  lapped  in  the  Elysium  of  a  new  edition. 
The  narrowing  eTect  of  a  profession  is  in  every  man 
a  defect,  albeit  an  inevitable  one.  B}Ton,  who  had  a 
larger  amount  of  common  sense  than  any  poet  of  his 
day,  tells  us,  in  "  Beppo," 

"  One  hates  an  author  that's  all  author ;  follows 
In  foolt:cap  uni  orms  turned  up  with  ink." 

And  his  lordship's  "  hate  "  in  the  matter  is  understand- 
able enough.  In  his  own  day,  Scott  and  himself  were 
almost  the  only  distinguished  authors  who  were  not 
"  all  authors,"  just  as  Mr.  Helps  and  Sir  Edward 
Bulwer  Lytton  are  almost  the  only  representatives  of 
the  class  in  ours.  This  professional  taint  not  only  re- 
sides in  the  writer,  impairing  his  fulness  and  comple- 
tion ;  it  flows  out  of  him  into  his  work,  and  impairs 


Men  of  Letters.  165 

it  also.  It  is  the  professional  character  which  author- 
ship has  assumed  which  has  taken  individuality  and 
personal  flavor  from  so  much  of  o.ir  ^mting,  and  pre- 
vented to  a  large  extent  the  production  of  enduring 
books.  Our  writing  is  done  too  hurriedly,  and  to 
serve  a  purpose  too  immediate.  Literature  is  not  so 
much  an  art  as  a  manufacture.  There  is  a  demand, 
and  too  many  crops  are  taken  ofi"  the  soil ;  it  is  never 
allowed  to  lie  fallow,  and  to  nourish  itself  in  peaceful- 
ness  and  silence.  When  so  many  cups  are  to  be 
filled,  too  much  water  is  certain  to  be  put  into  the 
teapot.  Letters  have  become  a  profession,  and  prob- 
ably of  all  professions  it  is,  in  the  long  run,  the  least 
conducive  to  personal  happiness.  It  is  the  most  pre- 
carious. In  it,  above  all  others,  to  be  weak  is*  to  be 
miserable.  It  is  the  least  mechanical,  consequently 
the  most  exhausting ;  and  in  its  higher  walks  it  deals 
with  a  man's  most  vital  material  —  utilizes  his  emo- 
tions, trades  on  his  faculties  of  love  and  imagination, 
uses  for  its  own  purposes  the  human  heart  by  which  he 
lives.  These  things  a  man  requires  for  himself ;  and 
when  they  are  in  a  large  proportion  transported  to  an 
ideal  world,  they  make  the  ideal  world  all  the  more 
brilliant  and  furnished,  and  leave  his  ordinary  exist- 
ence all  the  more  arid  and  common-place.  You  cannot 
spend  money  and  have  it ;  you  cannot  use  emotion 
and  possess  it.  The  poet  who  sings  loudly  of  love 
and  love's  delights,  may  in  the  ordinary  intercourse  of 
life  be  all  the  colder  for  his  singing.     The  man  who 


166  Men  of  Letters. 

has  been  moved  while  describing  an  imaginary  death- 
bed to-day,  is  all  the  more  likely  to  be  unmoved 
while  standing  by  his  friend's  grave  to-morrow.  Shak- 
speare,  after  emerging  from  the  moonlight  in  the 
Verona  orchard,  and  Romeo  and  Juliet's  silvery 
interchange  of  vows,  was,  I  fear  me,  not  marvellously 
enamoured  of  the  autumn  on  Ann  Hathaway' s  cheek. 
It  is  in  some  such  way  as  this  that  a  man's  books 
may  impoverish  his  life  ;  that  the  fire  and  heat  of  his 
genius  may  make  his  hearth  aU  the  colder.  From 
considerations  like  these,  one  can  explain  satisfactorily 
enough  to  one's  self  the  domestic  misadventures  of 
men  of  letters  —  of  poets  especially.  We  know  the 
poets  only  in  their  books  ;  their  wives  know  them  out 
of  them.  Their  wives  see  the  other  side  of  the  moon  ; 
and  we  have  been  made  pretty  well  aware  how  they 
have  appreciated  thai. 

The  man  engaged  in  the  ^vritin;^  of  books  is  tempted 
to  make  such  WTiting  the  be-all  and  end-all  of  his 
existence —  to  grow  his  literature  out  of  his  history,  ex- 
perience, or  observation,  as  the  gardener  grows  out  of 
soUs  brought  from  a  distance  the  plants  which  he  in- 
tends to  exhibit.  The  cup  of  life  foams  fiercely  over 
into  first  books ;  materials  for  the  second,  third,  and 
fourth  must  be  carefully  sought  for.  The  man  of 
letters,  as  time  passes  on,  and  the  professional  im- 
pulse works  deeper,  ceases  to  regard  the  world  with  a 
single  eye.  The  man  slowly  merges  into  the  artist. 
He  values  new  emotions  and  experiences,  because  he 


Men  of  Letters.  167 

can  turn  these  into  artistic  shapes.  He  plucks 
"  copy "  from  rising  and  setting  suns.  He  sees 
marketable  pathos  in  his  friend's  death-bed.  He 
carries  the  peal  of  his  daughter's  marriage  bells  into 
his  sentences  or  his  rhymes  ;  and  in  these  the  music 
sounds  sweeter  to  him  than  in  the  sunshine  and  the 
wind.  If  originally  of  a  meditative,  introspective 
mood,  his  profession  can  hardly  fail  to  confirm  and 
deepen  his  peculiar  temperament.  He  begins  to  feel 
his  own  pulse  curiously,  and  for  a  purpose.  As  a  spy 
in  the  service  of  literature,  he  lives  in  the  world  and 
its  concerns.  Out  of  every  thing  he  seeks  thoughts 
and  images,  as  out  of  every  thing  the  bee  seeks  wax 
and  honey.  A  curious  instance  of  this  mode  of  look- 
ing at  things  occurs  in  Goethe's  "  Letters  from  Italy," 
with  whom,  indeed,  it  was  a  fashion,  and  who  helped 
himself  out  of  the  teeming  world  to  more  effect  than 
any  man  of  his  time  :  — ■ 

"  From  Botzen  to  Trent  the  stage  is  nine  leagues, 
and  runs  through  a  valley  which  constantly  increases 
in  fertility.  All  that  merely  struggles  into  vegetation 
on  the  higher  mountains  has  here  more  strength  and 
vitality.  The  sun  shines  with  warmth,  and  there  is 
once  more  belief  in  a  Deity. 

"  A  poor  woman  cried  out  to  me  to  take  her  child 
into  my  vehicle,  as  the  soil  was  burning  its  feet.  I 
did  her  this  service  out  of  honor  to  the'  strong  light 
of  Heaven.  The  child  was  strangely  decked  out,  hut 
I  could  get  nothing  from  it  in  any  way." 


168  Men  of  Letters. 

It  is  clear  that  out  of  all  this  the  reader  gains ;  but 
I  cannot  help  thinking  that  for  the  writer  it  tends  to 
destroy  entire  and  simple  living  —  all  heart)'  and  final 
enjoyment  in  life.  Joy  and  sorrow,  death  and  mar- 
riage, the  comic  circumstance  and  the  tragic,  what 
befalls  him,  what  he  observes,  what  he  is  brought  into 
contact  with,  do  not  affect  him  as  they  aftect  other 
men  ;  they  are  secrets  to  be  rifled,  stones  to  be  built 
with,  clays  to  be  moulded  into  artistic  shape.  In 
giving  emotional  material  artistic  form,  there  is  indis- 
putably a  certain  noble  pleasure  ;  but  it  is  of  a  sol- 
itary and  severe  complexion,  and  takes  a  man  out  of 
the  circle  and  sympathies  of  his  fellows.  I  do  not 
say  that  this  kind  of  life  makes  a  man  selfish,  but  it 
often  makes  him  seem  so ;  and  the  results  of  this 
seeming,  on  friendship  and  the  domestic  relationships, 
for  instance,  are  as  baleful  as  if  selfishness  really 
existed.  The  peculiar  temptation  which  besets  men 
of  letters,  the  curious  playing  with  thought  and 
emotion,  the  tendency  to  analyze  and  take  every  thing 
to  pieces,  has  two  results,  and  neither  aids  his  hap- 
piness nor  even  his  literary  success.  On  the  one 
hand,  and  in  relation  to  the  social  relations,  it  gives 
him  somewhat  of  an  icy  aspect,  and  so  breaks  the 
spring  and  eagerness  of  affectionate  response.  For 
the  best  afiection  is  shy,  reticent,  undemonstrative, 
and  needs  to  be  drawn  out  by  its  like.  If  unrecog- 
nized, like  an  acquaintance  on  the  street,  it  passes  by, 
making  no  sign,  and  is  for  the  time  being  a  stranger. 


Men  of  Letters.  169 

On  the  other  hand,  the  desire  to  say  a  fine  thing  about 
a  phenomenon,  whether  natural  or  moral,  prevents  a 
man  from  reaching  the  inmost  core  of  the  phenom- 
enon. Entrance  into  these  matters  will  never  be 
obtained  by  the  most  sedulous  seeking.  The  man 
who  has  found  an  entrance  cannot  tell  how  he  came 
there,  and  he  will  never  find  his  way  back  again  by 
the  same  road.  From  this  law  arises  all  the  dreary 
conceits  and  artifices  of  the  poets ;  it  is  through  the 
operation  of  the  same  law  that  many  of  our  simple 
songs  and  ballads  are  inexpressibly  affecting,  because 
in  them  there  is  no  consciousness  of  authorship  ;  emo- 
tion and  utterance  are  twin-born,  consentaneous. — like 
sorrow  and  tears,  a  blow  and  its  pain,  a  kiss  and  its 
thrill.  When  a  man  is  happy,  every  effort  to  express 
his  happiness  mars  its  completeness.  I  am  not  happy 
at  all  unless  I  am  happier  than  I  know.  When  the 
tide  is  full,  there  is  sUence  in  channel  and  creek- 
The  silence  of  the  lover  when  he  clasps  the  maid  is 
better  than  the  passionate  murmur  of  the  song  which 
celebrates  her  charms.  If  to  be  near  the  rose  makes 
the  nightingale  tipsy  with  delight,  what  must  it  be  to 
be  the  rose  herself?  One  feeling  of  the  "  wild  joys 
of  living  —  the  leaping  from  rock  to  rock,"  is  better 
than  the  "  muscular-Christianity "  literature  which 
our  time  has  produced.  I  am  afraid  that  the  profes- 
sion of  letters  interferes  with  the  elemental  feelings 
of  life ;  and  I  am  afraid,  too,  that  in  the  majority  of 
cases  this  interference  is  not  justified  by  its  results. 


170  Men  of  Letters. 

The  entireness  and  simplicity  of  life  is  flawed  by  the 
intrusion  of  an  inquisitive  element,  and  this  inquis- 
itive element  never  yet  found  any  thing  which  was 
much  Avorth  the  finding.  Men  live  by  the  primal 
energies  of  love,  faith,  imagination ;  and,  happily,  it 
is  not  given  to  every  one  to  live,  in  the  pecuniary 
sense,  by  the  artistic  utilization  and  sale  of  these. 
You  cannot  make  ideas ;  they  must  come  unsought 
if  they  come  at  all. 

"  From  pastoral  graves  extracting  thoughts  divine  " 

is  a  profitable  occupation  enough,  if  you  stumble  on 
the  little  church-yard  covered  over  with  silence,  and 
folded  among  the  hills.  If  you  go  to  the  church- 
yard with  intent  to  procure  thoughts,  as  you  go  into 
the  woods  to  gather  anemones,  you  are  wasting  your 
time.  Thoughts  must  come  naturally,  like  wild 
flowers ;  they  cannot  be  forced  in  a  hot-bed  —  even 
although  aided  by  the  leaf  mould  of  your  past  —  like 
exotics.  And  it  is  the  misfortune  of  men  of  letters 
of  our  day  that  they  cannot  afford  to  wait  for  this 
natural  flowering  of  thought,  but  are  driven  to  the 
forcing  process,  with  the  results  which  were  to  be 
expected. 


ON  THE  IMPORTANCE  OF  A  MAN  TO 
HIMSELF. 

rr>HE  present  wTiter  remembers  to  have  been  visited 
-L  once  by  a  strange  feeling  of  puzzlement :  and 
the  puzzled  feeling  arose  out  of  the  following  circum- 
stance :  —  He  was  seated  in  a  railway  carriage,  five 
minutes  or  so  before  starting,  and  had  time  to  con- 
template certain  wagons  or  trucks  filled  with  cattle, 
drawn  up  on  a  parallel  line,  and  quite  close  to  the 
window  at  which  he  sat.  The  cattle  wore  a  much- 
enduring  aspect ;  and,  as  he  looked  into  their  large, 
patient,  melancholy  eyes,  —  for,  as  before  mentioned, 
there  was  no  space  to  speak  of  intervening,  —  the 
feeling  of  puzzlement  alluded  to  arose  in  his  mind. 
And  it  consisted  in  an  attempt  to  solve  the  existence 
before  him,  to  entsr  into  it,  to  understand  it,  and 
his  inability  to  accomplish  it,  or  indeed  to  make  any 
way  toward  the  accomplishment  of  it.  The  much- 
enduring  animals  in  the  trucks  opposite  had  unques- 
tionably some  rude  twilight  of  a  notion  of  a  world ; 
of  objects  they  had  some  unknown  cognizance  ;  but 
he  could  not  get  behind  the  melancholy  eye  within  a 
yard  of  him,  and  look  through  it.     How,  from  that 

(171) 


172  On  the  Importance 

window,  the  world  shaped  itself,  he  could  not  dis- 
cover, could  not  even  fancy ;  and  yet,  st  iring  on  the 
animals,  he  was  conscious  of  a  certain  fascination  in 
which  there  lurked  an  element  of  terror.  These  wild, 
unkempt  brutes,  with  slavering  muzzles,  penned,  to- 
geth?r,  lived,  could  choose  between  this  thing  and  the 
other,  could  be  frightened,  could  be  enraged,  could 
even  love  and  hate ;  and  gazing  into  a  placid,  heavy 
countenance,  and  the  depths  of  a  patient  eye,  not  a 
yard  away,  he  was  conscious  of  an  obscure  and  shud- 
dering recognition,  of  a  life  akin  so  far  with  his  own. 
But  to  enter  into  that  life  imaginatively,  and  to  con- 
ceive it,  he  found  impossible.  Eye  looked  upon  eye, 
but  the  one  could  not  flash  recognition  on  the  other ; 
and,  thinking  of  this,  he  remembers,  with  what  a  sense 
of  ludicrous  horror,  the  idea  came,  —  what,  if  looking 
on  one  another  thus,  some  spark  of  recognition  could 
be  elicited  ;  if  some  rudiment  of  thought  could  be 
detected  ;  if  there  were  indeed  a  point  at  which  man 
and  ox  could  meet  and  compare  notes  ?  Suppose 
some  gleam  or  scintillation  of  humor  had  lighted  up 
the  unwinking,  amber  eye  ?  Heavens,  the  bellow  of 
the  weaning  calf  would  be  pathetic,  shoe-leather 
would  be  forsworn,  the  eating  of  roast  meat,  hot  or 
cold,  would  be  cannibilism,  the  terrified  world  would 
make  a  sudden  dash  into  vegetarianism  !  Happily 
before  fancy  had  time  to  play  another  vagary,  with  a 
snort  and  a  pull  the  train  moved  on,  and  my  truckful 
of  horned  friends  were  left  gazing  into  empty  space, 


of  a  Man  to  Himself.  173 

with  the  same  wistful,  patient,  and  melancholy  ex- 
pression with  which,  for  the  space  of  five  minutes  or 
so,  they  had  surveyed  and  bewildered  me. 

A  similar  feeling  of  puzzlement  to  that  which  I 
have  indicated,  besets  one  not  unfrequently  in  the 
contemplation  of  men  and  women.  You  are  brought 
in  contact  with  a  person,  you  attempt  to  comprehend 
him,  to  enter  into  him,  in  a  word  to  he  him,  and,  if 
you  are  not  utterly  foiled  in  the  attempt,  you  cannot 
flatter  yourself  that  you  have  been  successful  to  the 
measure  of  your  desire.  A  person  interests,  or  piques, 
or  tantalizes  you,  you  do  your  best  to  make  him  out, 
yet  strive  as  you  will,  you  cannot  read  the  riddle  of 
his  personality.  From  the  invulnerable  fortress  of  his 
own  nature  he  smiles  contemptuously  on  the  be- 
leaguering armies  of  your  curiosity  and  analysis.  And 
it  is  not  only  the  stranger  that  thus  defeats  you  ;  it 
may  be  the  brother  brought  up  by  the  same  fireside 
with  you,  the  best  friend  whom  you  have  known  from 
early  school  and  college  days,  the  very  child,  perhaps, 
that  bears  your  name,  and  with  whose  moral  and 
mental  apparatus  you  think  you  are  as  familiar  as 
•  with  your  own.  In  the  midst  of  the  most  amicable 
relationships,  and  the  best  understandings,  human 
beings  are  at  times,  conscious  of  a  cold  feeling  of 
strangeness  —  the  friend  is  actuated  by  a  feeling 
which  never  could  actuate  you,  some  hitherto  unknown 
part  of  his  character  becomes  visible,  and  while  at  one 
moment  you  stood  in  such  close  neighborhood,  that 


174  ^  On  the  Importance 

you  could  feel  his  arm  touch  your  own,  in  th?  next 
there  is  a  feeling  of  removal,  of  distance,  of  empty 
space  betwixt  him  and  you  in  which  the  wind  is  blow- 
ing. You  and  he  become  separate  entities.  He  is 
related  to  you  as  Border  peel  is  related  to  Border  peel 
on  Tweedside,  or  as  ship  is  related  to  ship  on  the  sea. 
It  is  not  meant  that  any  quarrel  or  direct  misunder- 
standing should  have  taken  place,  simply  that  feeling 
of  foreignness  is  meant  to  be  indicated  which  occurs 
now  and  then  in  the  intercourse  of  the  most  affec- 
tionate ;  which  comes  as  a  harsh  reminder  to  friends 
and  lovers  that  with  whatsoever  flowery  bands  they 
may  be  linked,  they  are  separated  persons,  who 
understand,  and  can  only  understand,  each  other 
partially.  It  is  annoying  to  be  put  out  in  our  notions 
of  men  and  women  thus,  and  to  be  forced  to  rearrange 
them.  It  is  a  misfortune  to  have  to  m;inoDU\Te  one's 
heart  as  a  general  has  to  mana'u\Te  his  army.  The 
globe  has  been  circumnavigated,  but  no  man  ever  yet 
has ;  you  may  survey  a  kingdom  and  note  the  result 
in  maps,  but  all  the  savants  in  the  world  could  not 
produce  a  reliable  map  of  the  poorest  human  personal- 
ity And  the  worst  of  all  this  is,  that  love  and  friend- 
ship may  be  the  outcome  of  a  certain  condition  of 
knowledge;  increase  the  knowledge,  and  love  and 
friendship  beat  their  wings  and  go.  Every  man's  road 
in  life  is  marked  by  the  pjraves  of  his  personal  likings. 
Intimacy  is  fequently  the  road  to  indifi"erence,  and 
marriage,  a  parricide.     From  these  accidents  to  the 


of  a  Man  to  Himself.  175 

affections,  and  from  the  efforts  to  repair  them,  life  has 
in  many  a  patched  and  tinkered  look. 

Love  and  friendship  are  the  discoA^eries  of  our- 
selves in  others,  and  our  delight  in  the  recognition ; 
and  in  men,  as  in  books,  we  only  know  that,  the 
parallel  of  which,  we  have  in' ourselves.  We  know 
only  that  portion  of  the  world  which  we  have  travelled 
over  ;  and  we  are  never  a  whit  wiser  than  our  own 
experiences.  Imagination,  the  falcon,  sits  on  the 
wrist  of  Experience,  the  falconer ;  she  can  never  soar 
beyond  the  reach  of  his  whistle,  and  when  tired  she 
must  return  to  her  perch.  Our  knowledge  is  limited 
by  ourselves,  and  so  also  are  our  imaginations.  And 
so  it  comes  about,  that  a  man  measures  every  thing  by 
his  own  foot-rule  ;  that  if  he  is  ignoble,  all  the  ignoble- 
ness  that  is  in  the  world  looks  out  upon  him,  and 
claims  kindred  with  him  ;  if  noble,  all  the  nobleness 
in  the  world  does  the  like.  Shakspeare  is  always  the 
same  height  with  his  reader ;  and  when  a  thousand 
Christians  subscribe  to  one  Confession  of  Faith,  hardly 
to  two  of  them  does  it  mean  the  same  thing.  The 
world  is  a  great  warehouse  of  raiment,  to  which  every 
one  has  access  and  is  allowed  free  use ;  and  the  re- 
markable thing  is,  what  coarse  stuffs  are  often  chosen, 
and  how  scantily  some  people  are  a-ttired. 

We  never  get  quit  of  ourselves.  While  I  am  writing, 
the  spring  is  outside,  and  this  season  of  the  year 
touches  my  spirit  always  with  a  sense  of  newness,  of 
strangeness,  of  resurrection..     It  shoots  boyhood  again 


176  On  the  Importance 

into  the  blood  of  middle  age.  That  tender  greening 
of  the  black  bough  and  the  red  field,  —  thut  coming 
again  of  the  new-old  flowers,  —  that  re-birth  of  love  in 
all  the  family  of  birds,  with  cooings,  and  caressings, 
and  building  of  nests  in  wood  and  brake,  —  that  strange 
glory  of  sunshine  in  the  air,  —  that  stirring  of  life  in 
the  green  mould,  making  even  churchyards  beautiful, 
seems  like  the  creation  of  a  new  world.  And  yet  — 
and  yet,  even  with  the  lamb  in  the  sunny  field,  the  lark 
miL'-high  in  the  blue.  Spring  has  her  melancholy  side, 
and  bears  a  sadder  burden  to  the  heart  than  Autumn, 
preaching  of  decay  with  all  his  painted  woods.  For 
the  flowers  that  make  sweet  the  moist  places  in  the 
forest  are  not  the  same  that  bloomed  the  year  before. 
Another  lark  sings  above  the  furrowed  field.  Nature 
rolls  on  in  her  eternal  course,  repeating  her  tale  of 
spring,  summer,  autumn,  winter ;  but  life  in  man  and 
beast  is  transitory,  and  other  living  creatures  take  their 
places.  It  is  quite  certain  that  one  or  other  of  the 
next  twenty  springs  will  come  unseen  by  me,  wiU 
awake  no  throb  of  transport  in  my  veins.  But  will  it 
be  less  bright  on  that  account  ?  WiU  the  lamb  be 
saddened  in  the  field  ?  Will  the  lark  be  less  happy  in 
the  air  ?  The  sunshine  will  draw  the  daisy  from  the 
mound  under  whi^h  I  sleep,  as  carelessly  as  she  draws 
the  cowslip  from  the  meadow  by  the  river-side.  The 
seasons  have  no  ruth,  no  compimction.  They  care 
not  for  our  petty  lives.  Tlie  light  falls  sweetly  on 
graveyards,  -and  on  brown   laborers  among   the  hay- 


of  a  Man  to  Himself.  177 

swaths.  Were  the  world  depopulated  to-morrow, 
next  spring  would  break  pitilessly  bright,  flowers  would 
bloom,  fruit-tree  bou;';hs  wear  pink  and  white ;  and 
although  there  w^ould  be  no  eye  to  witness,  Summer 
would  not  adorn  herself  with  one  blossom  the  less. 
It  is  curious  to  think  how  important  a  creature  a  man 
is  to  himself.  We  cannot  help  thinking  that  all  things 
exist  for  our  particular  selves.  The  sun,  in  whose 
light  a  system  lives,  warms  me ;  makes  the  trees  grow 
for  me ;  paints  the  evening  sky  in  gorgeous  colors 
for  me.  The  mould  I  till,  produced  from  the  beds  of 
extinct  oceans  and  the  grating  of  rock  and  mountain 
during  countless  centuries,  exists  that  I  may  have 
muflins  to  breakfast.  Animal  life,  with  its  strange 
instincts  and  affections,  is  to  be  recognized  and 
cherished,  —  for  does  it  not  draw  my  burdens  for  me, 
and  carry  me  from  place  to  place,  and  yield  me  com- 
fortable broadcloth,  and  succulent  joints  to  dinner  ? 
I  think  it  matter  of  complaint  that  Nature,  like  a  per- 
sonal friend  to  whom  I  have  done  kind  services,  will 
not  wear  crape  at  my  funeral.  I  think  it  cruel  that 
the  sun  should  shine,  and  birds  sing,  and  I  lying  in 
my  grave.  People  talk  of  the  age  of  the  world  !  So 
far  as  I  am  concerned,  it  began  wdth  my  conscious- 
ness, and  will  end  with  my  decease. 

And  yet,  this  self-consciousness,  which  so  continu- 
ally besets  us,  is  iu  itself  a  misery  and  a  galling  chain. 
We  are  never  happy  tiU  by  imagination  we  are  taken 
out  of  the  pales  and  limits  of  self.     We  receive  happi- 
12 


178  On  the  Importance 

ness  at  second  hand :  the  spring  of  it  may  be  in  our- 
selves, but  we  do  not  know  it  to  be  happiness,  till, 
like  the  sun's  light  from  the  moon,  it  is  reflected 
on  us  from  an  object  oitside.  The  admixture  of 
a  foreign  element  sweetens  and  unfamiliarizes  it. 
Sheridan  prepared  his  good  things  in  solitude,  but 
he  tasted  for  the  first  time  his  jest's  prosperity  when 
it  came  back  to  him  in  illumined  faces  and  a  roar 
of  applause.  Your  oldest  story  becomes  new  when 
you  have  a  new  auditor.  A  young  man  is  truth- 
loving  and  amiable ;  but  it  is  only  when  these  fair 
qualities  shine  upon  him  from  a  girl's  face  that 
he  is  smitten  by  transport  —  only  then  is  he  truly 
happy.  In  that  junction  of  hearts,  in  that  ecstasy  of 
mutual  admiration  and  delight,  the  finest  epithalamium 
ever  writ  by  poet  is  hardly  worthy  of  the  occasion. 
The  countryman  purchases  oranges  at  a  fair  for  his 
little  ones ;  and  when  he  brings  them  home  in  the 
evening,  and  watches  his  chubby  urchins,  sitting  up 
among  the  bedclothes,  peel  and  devour  the  fruit,  he  is 
for  the  time  being  richer  than  if  he  drew  the  rental 
of  the  orange-groves  of  Seville.  To  eat  an  orange 
himself  is  nothing ;  to  see  th&m  eat  it  is  a  pleasure 
worth  the  price  of  the  fruit  a  thousand  times  over. 
There  is  no  happiness  in  the  world  in  which  love  does 
not  enter ;  and  love  is  but  the  discovery  of  ourselves 
in  others,  and  the  delight  in  the  recognition.  Apart 
from  others,  no  man  can  make  his  happiness  ;  just 
as,  apart  fi-om  a  mirror   of  one  kind  or  another,  no 


of  a  Man  to  Himself  179 

man    can    become    acquainted  with   his    own   linea- 
ments. 

The  accomplishment  of  a  man  is  the  light  by  which 
we  are  enabled  to  discover  the  limits  of  his  person- 
ality. Every  man  brings  into  the  world  Avith  him  a 
certain  amount  of  pith  and  force,  and  to  that  pith  or 
force  his  amount  of  accomplishment  is  exactly  pro- 
portioned. It  is  in  this  way  that  every  spoken  word, 
every  action  of  a  man,  becomes  biographical.  Every 
thing  a  man  says  or  does  is  in  consistency  with  him- 
self; and  it  is  by  looking  back  on  his  sayings  and 
doings  that  we  arrive  at  the  truth  concerning  him.  A 
man  is  one  ;  and  every  outcome  of  him  has  a  family 
resemblance.  Goldsmith  did  ?ioi  "write  like  an  angel 
and  talk  like  poor  PoU,"  as  we  may  in  part  discern 
from  Boswell's  "  Johnson."  Strange,  indeed,  if  a  man 
talked  continually  the  sheerest  nonsense,  and  wrote 
continually  the  gracefulest  humors ;  if  a  man  was 
lame  on  the  street,  and  the  finest  dancer  in  the  ball- 
room. To  describe  a  character  by  antithesis  is  like 
painting  a  portrait  in  black  and  white  —  all  the  curious 
intermixtiu-es  and  gradations  of  color  are  lost.  The 
accomplishment  of  a  human  being  is  measured  by  his 
strength,  or  by  his  nice  tact  in  using  his  strength. 
The  distance  to  which  your  gun,  whether  rifled  or 
smooth-bored,  will  carry  its  shot,  depends  upon  the 
force  of  its  charge..  A  runner's  speed  and  endurance 
depends  upon  his  depth  of  chest  and  elasticity  of  limb. 
If  a  poet's  lines  lack  harmony,  it  instructs  us  that  there 


180  On  the  Importance 

is  a  certain  lack  of  harmony  ii  himself.  We  see  why 
Haydon  failed  as  an  artist  when  we  read  his  life.  No 
one  can  dip  into  the  "Excursion"  without  discovering 
that  Wordsworth  was  devoid  of  humor,  and  that  he 
cared  more  for  the  narrow  Cumberland  vale  than  he 
did  for  the  big  world.  The  flavor  of  opium  can  be 
detected  in  the  "  Ancient  Mariner  "  and  "  Christabel." 
A  man's  word  or  deed  takes  us  back  to  himself,  as 
the  sunbeam  takes  us  back  to  the  sun.  It  is  the 
sternest  philosophy,  but  on  the  whole  the  truest,  that, 
in  the  wide  arena  of  the  Avorld,  failure  and  success  are 
not  accidents,  as  we  so  frequently  suppose,  but  the 
strictest  justice./  If  you  do  your  fair  day's  work,  you 
are  certain  to  get  your  fair  day's  wage  —  in  praiso  or 
pudding,  whichever  happens  to  suit  your  taste.  You 
may  have  seen  at  country  fairs  a  machine  by  which 
the  rustics  test  their  strength  of  arm.  A  country 
fellow  strikes  vigorously  a  buffer,  which  recoils,  and 
the  amount  of  the  recoil  —  dependent,  of  course,  on 
the  force  with  which  it  is  struck  —  is  represented  by  a 
series  of  notches  or  marks.  The  world  is  such  a 
buff'er.  A  man  strikes  it  with  all  his  might :  his  mark 
may  be  £40,000,  a  peerage  and  Westminster  Abbey, 
a  name  in  literature  or  art ;  but  in  every  case  his 
mark  is  nicely  determined  by  the  force  or  the  art  with 
which  the  buffer  is  struck.  Into  the  world  a  man 
brings  his  personality,  and  his  biography  is  simply  a 
catalogue  of  its  results. 

There   are   some  men  who  have  no  individuality, 


of  a  Man  to  IHmself.  181 

just  as  there  are  some  men  who  have  no  face.  These 
are  to  be  described  by  generals,  not  by  particulars. 
They  are  thin,  vapid,  inconclusive.  They  are  impor-' 
tant  solely  on  account  of  their  numbers.  For  them 
the  census  enumerator  labors  ;  they  form  majorities  ; 
they  crowd  voting-booths ;  they  make  the  money  ; 
they  do  the  ordinary  work  of  the  world.  They  are 
valuable  when  well  officered.  They  are  plastic  matter 
to  be  shaped  by  a  workman's  hand ;  and  are  built 
with  as  bricks  are  built  with.  In  the  aggregate,  they 
form  publ'c  opinion ;  but  then,  in  every  age,  pi.blic 
opinion  is  the  disseminated  thoughts  of  some  half 
a  dozen  men,  who  are  in  all  probability  sleeping 
quietly  in  their  graves.  They  retain  dead  men's  ideas, 
just  as  the  atmosphere  retains  the  light  and  heat  of 
the  set  sun.  They  are  not  Ight  —  they  are  tvvilght. 
To  know  how  to  deal  with  such  men  —  to  know  how 
to  use  them  —  is  the  problem  which  ambitious  force 
is  called  upon  to  solve.  Personality,  individuality, 
force  of  character,  or  by  whatever  name  we  choose  to 
designate  original  and  vigorous  manhood,  is  the  best 
thing  which  nature  has  in  her  gift.  The  forceful  man 
is  a  prophecy  of  the  future. '  The  wind  blows  here,  but 
long  after  it  is  spent,  the  big  wave  which  is  its  crea- 
ture, breaks  on  a  shore  a  thousand  miles  away.  It  is 
curious  how  swiftly  influences  travel  from  centre  to 
circumference.  A  certain  empress  invents  a  gracefully 
pendulous  crinoline,  and  immediately,  from  Paris  to 
the  pole,  the  female  world  is  behooped ;  and  neither 


182  On  the  Importance 

objurgation  of  brother,  lover,  or  husband,  deaths  by 
burning  or  machinery,  nor  all  the  wit  of  the  satirists, 
are  likely  to  affect  its  vitality.  Never  did  an  idea  go 
round  civilization  so  rapidly.  Crinoline  has  already  a 
heavier  mai  tjTology  than  many  a  creed.  The  world  is 
used  easily,  if  one  can  only  hit  on  the  proper  method ; 
and  force  of  character,  originality,  of  whatever  kind, 
is  always  certain  to  make  its  mark.  It  is  a  diamond, 
and  the  world  is  its  pane  of  glass.  In  a  world  so 
common-place  as  this,  the  pecuU  r  man  even  should  be 
considered  a  blessing.  Humorousness,  eccentricity,  the 
habit  of  1  )oking  at  men  and  t'lings  from  an  odd  angle, 
are  valuable,  because  they  break  the  dead  level  of 
society,  and  take  away  its  sameness.  It  is  well  that 
a  man  should  be  known  by  something  else  than  his 
name  ;  there  are  few  of  us  who  can  be  known  by  any 
thing  else,  and  Brown,  Jones,  and  Robinson  are  the 
names  of  the  majority. 

In  literature  and  art,  this  personal  outcome  is  of 
the  highest  value ;  in  fact,  it  is  the  only  thing  truly 
valuable.  The  greatness  of  an  artist  or  a  writer  does 
not  depond  on  what  he  has  in  common  with  other 
artists  and  writers,  but  on  what  he  has  peculiar  to 
himself.  The  great  man  is  the  man  who  does  a  thing 
for  the  first  time.  It  was  a  difficult  thing  to  discover 
America ;  since  it  has  been  discovered,  it  has  been 
found  an  easy  enough  task  to  sail  t'lithr.  It  is  this 
peculiar  something  resident  ii  a  poem  or  a  painting 
which  is  its  final  test,  —  at  all  events,  possessing  it,  it 


of  a  Man  to  Himself.  183 

has  the  elements  of  endurance.  Apart  from  its  other 
values,  it  has,  in  virtue  of  that,  a  biographical  one ;  it 
becomes  a  study  of  character ;  it  is  a  window  through 
which  you  can  look  into  a  human  interior.  There  is 
a  cleverness  in  the  world  which  seems  to  have  neither 
father  nor  mother.  It  exists,  but  it  is  impossible  to 
tell  from  whence  it  comes,  — just  as  it  is  impossible 
to  lift  the  shed  apple-blossom  of  an  orchard,  and  to 
discover,  from  its  bloom  and  odor,  to  what  branch  it 
belonged.  Such  cleverness  illustrates  nothing :  it  is 
an  anonymous  letter.  Look  at  it  ever  so  long,  and 
you  cannot  tell  its  lineage.  It  lives  in  the  catalogue 
of  waifs  and  strays.  On  the  other  hand,  there  are 
men  whose  ev?ry  expression  is  characteristic,  whose 
every  idea  seems  to  come  out  of  a  mould.  In 
the  short  sentence,  or  curt,  careless  saying  of  such 
when  laid  bare,  you  can  read  their  histories  so  far,  as 
in  the  smallest  segment  of  a  tree  you  can  trace  the 
markings  of  its  rings.  The  first  dies,  because  it  is 
shallow-rooted,  and  has  no  vitality  beyond  its  own ; 
the  second  lives,  because  it  is  related  to  and  fed  by 
something  higher  than  itself.  The  famous  axiom  of 
Mrs.  Glass,  that  in  order  to  make  hare-soup  you 
"  must  first  catch  your  hare,"  has  a  wide  signifi- 
cance. In  art,  literature,  social  life,  morals  even,  you 
must  first  catch  your  man  :  that  done,  every  thing 
else  follows  as  a  matter  of  course.  A  man  may  learn 
much :  hut  for  the  most  important  thing  of  aU  he  can 
find  neither  teachers  nor  schools. 


184  On  the  Importance 

Each  man  is  the  most  important  thing  in  the  world 
to  himself ;  but  why  is  he  to  himself  so  important  ? 
Simply  because  he  is  a  personality  with  capacities  of 
pleasure,  of  pain,  who  can  be  hurt,  who  can  be 
pleased,  who  can  be  disappointed,  whp  labors  and 
expects  his  hire,  in  whose  consciousness,  in  fact,  for 
the  tim3  being,  the  whole  universe  lives.  He  is,  and 
every  thing  else  is  relative.  Confined  to  his  own  per- 
sonality, making  it  his  tower  of  outlook,  from  whi^h 
only  he  can  survey  the  outer  world,  he  naturally 
enough  forms  a  rather  high  estimate  of  its  value, 
of  its  dignity,  of  its  intrinsic  worth.  This  high 
estima^^e  is  usef  il  in  so  far  as  it  makes  his  con- 
dition pleasant,  and  it  —  or  rather  our  proncncss  to 
form  it  —  we  are  accustomed  to  call  vanity.  Vanity  — 
which  really  helps  to  keep  the  race  alive  —  has  been 
treated  harshly  by  the  moralists  and  satirists.  It 
does  not  quite  deserve  the  hard  names  it  has  been 
called.  It  interpenetrates  every  thing  a  man  says 
or  does,  but  it  interpenetrates  for  a  useful  purpose. 
If  it  is  always  an  alloy  in  the  pure  gold  of  virtue, 
it  at  least  does  the  service  of  an  alloy — making 
the  precious  metal  workable.  Nature  gave  man  his 
powers,  appetites,  aspirations,  and  along  with  these 
a  pan  of  incense,  which  fumes  from  the  birth  of  con- 
sciousness to  its  decease,  making  the  best  part  of 
life  rapture,  and  the  worst  part  endurable.  But 
for  vanity  the  race  would  have  died  out  long  ago. 
There  are  some  men  whose  lives  seem  to  us  as  un- 


of  a  Man  to  Himself.  185 

desirabb  as  the  lives  of  toads  or  serpents  ;  yet  these 
men  breathe  in  tolerable  content  and  satisfaction.  If 
a  man  could  hear  all  that  his  fellows  say  of  him —  that 
he  is  stupid,  that  he  is  henpecked,  that  he  will  be  in 
the  Gazette  in  a  week,  that  his  brain  is  softening,  that 
he  has  said  all  his  best  things  —  and  if  he  could  be- 
lieve that  these  pleasant  things  are  true,  he  would  be 
in  his  grave  before  the  month  was  out.  Happily  no 
man  does  hear  these  things  ;  and  if  he  did,  they  would 
only  provoke  inextinguishable  wrath  or  inextinguish- 
able laughter.  A  man  receives  the  shocks  of  life  on 
the  buffer  of  his  vanity.  Vanity  acts  as  his  second 
and  bottleholder  in  the  world's  prize-ring,  and  it 
fights  him  well,  bringing  him  smilingly  up  to  time 
after  the  fiercest  knock-down  blows.  Vanity  is  to  a 
man  what  the  oily  secretion  is  to  a  bird,  with  which  it 
sleeks  and  adjusts  the  plumage  ruffled  by  whatever 
causes.  Vanity  is  not  only  instrumental  in  keeping  a 
man  alive  and  in  heart,  but,  in  its  lighter  manifesta- 
tions, it  is  the  great  sweetener  of  social  existence.  It 
is  the  creator  of  dress  and  fashion  ;  it  is  the  inventor 
of  forms  and  ceremonies ;  to  it  we  are  indebted 
for  all  our  traditions  of  civility.  For  vanity  in  its 
idler  moments  is  benevolent,  is  as  willing  to  give 
pleasure  as  to  take  it,  and  accepts  as  sufficient  re- 
ward for  its  services  a  kind  word  or  an  approving 
smile.  It  delights  to  bask  in  the  sunshine  of  appro- 
bation. ''^  Out  of  man  vanity  makes  gentleman.  /  The 
proud  man  is  cold,  the  selfish  man  hard  and  griping  — 


186  On  the  Importance 

the  vain  man  desires  to  shine,  to  please,  to  make  him- 
self agreeable  ;  and  this  amiable  feeling  works  to  the 
outside  in  suavity  and  charm  of  manner.  The 
French  are  the  vainest  people  in  Europe,  and  the 
most  polite. 

As  each  man  is  to  himself  the  most  important 
thing  in  the  world,  each  man  is  an  egotist  in  his 
thinkings,  in  his  desires,  in  his  fears.  It  does  not, 
however,  follow  that  each  man  must  be  an  egotist  — 
as  the  word  is  popularly  understood  —  in  his  speech. 
But  even  although  this  were  the  case,  the  world 
would  be  divided  into  egotists,  likable  and  unlikable. 
There  are  two  kinds  of  egot'sm,  a  trifling  vain-glori- 
ous kind,  a  mere  burning  of  personal  incense,  in  which 
the  man  is  at  once  altar,  pri?st,  censer,  and  divinity  ;  a 
kind  which  deals  with  the  accidents  and  wrappages  of 
the  speaker,  his  equipage,  his  riches,  his  family,  his  ser- 
vants, his  furniture  and  array.  The  other  kind  has  no 
taint  of  self-aggrandizement,  but  is  rooted  in  the  fac- 
ulties of  love  and  humor  ;  and  this  latter  kind  is  never 
offensive,  because  it  includes  others,  and  knows  no 
scorn  or  exclusivejiess.  The  one  is  the  offspring  of  a 
narrow  and  unimaginative  personality  ;  the  other  of  a 
large  and  genial  one.  There  are  persons  who  are  the 
terrors  of  society.  Perfectly  innocent  of  evil  inten- 
tion, they  are  yet,  with  a  certain  brutal  unconscious- 
ness, continually  trampling  on  other  people's  corns. 
They  touch  you  every  now  and  again  like  a  red-hot 
iron.  You  wince,  acquit  them  of  any  desire  to  wound, 


of  a  Man  to  Himself.  187 

but  find  forgiveness  a  hard  task.  These  persons  re- 
member every  thing  about  themselves,  and  forget 
every  thing  about  you.  They  have  the  instinct  of  a 
flesh-fly  for  a  raw.  Should  your  great-grandfather 
have  had  the  misfortune  to  be  hanged,  such  a  person 
is  certain,  on  some  public  occasion,  to  make  allusion 
to  your  pedigree.  He  will  probably  insist  on  your 
furnishing  him  with  a  sketch  of  your  family  tree.  If 
your  daughter  has  made  a  runaway  marriage  —  on 
which  subject  yourself  and  friends  maintain  a  judi- 
cious silence  —  he  is  certain  to  stumble  upon  it,  and 
make  the  old  sore  smart  again.  In  all  this  there  is 
no  malice,  no  desire  to  wound ;  it  arises  simply  from 
want  of  imagination,  from  profound  immersion  in  self. 
An  imaginative  man  recognizes  at  once  a  portion  of 
himself  in  his  fellow,  and  speaks  to  that.  To  hurt 
you  is  to  hurt  himself.  Much  of  the  rudeness  we 
encounter  in  life  cannot  be  properly  set  down  to  cru- 
elty or  badness  of  heart.  The  unimaginative  man  is 
callous,  and  although  he  hurts  easily,  he  cannot  be 
easily  hurt  in  return.  The  imaginative  man  is  sen- 
sitive, and  merciful  to  others,  out  of  the  merest  mercy 
to  himself. 

In  literature,  as  in  social  life,  the  attractiveness  of 
egotism  d?pends  entirely  upon  the  egotist.  If  he  be 
a  conceited  man,  full  «f  self- admirations  and  vain- 
glories, his  egotism  wiU  disgust  and  repel.  When  he 
sings  his  own  praises,  his  reader  feels  that  re  lections 
are  being  thrown  on  himself,  and  in  a  natural  revenge 


188  On  the  Importance 

he  calls  the  writer  a  coxcomb.  If,  on  the  other 
hand,  he  be  loving,  genial,  humorous,  with  a  sym- 
pathy for  others,  his  garrulousness  and  his  personal 
allusions  are  forgiven,  because,  while  revealing  him- 
self, he  is  revealing  his  reader  as  well.  A  man  may 
•Write  about  himself  during  his  whole  life  without 
once  yrtring  or  offending  ;  but  to  accomplish  this  he 
must  be  interesting  in  himself —  be  a  man  of  curious 
and  vagrant  moods,  gifted  with  the  cunningest  tact 
and  humor ;  and  the  experience  which  he  relates 
must  at  a  thousand  points  touch  the  experiences  of 
his  readers,  so  that  they,  as  it  were,  become  partners 
in  his  game.  When  X.  tells  me,  with  an  evi  lent 
swell  of  pride,  that  he  dines  constantly  with  half  a 
dozen  men-servants  in  attendance,  or  that  he  never 
drives  abroad  save  in  a  coach-and-six,  I  am  not  con- 
scious of  any  spec'al  gratitude  to  X.  for  the  informa- 
tion. Possibly,  if  my  establishment  boasts  only  of 
Cinderella,  and  if  a  cab  is  the  only  vehicle  in  which  I 
can  afford  to  ride,  and  all  the  more  if  I  can  indulge 
in  that  only  on  occasions  of  solemnity,  I  fly  into  a 
rage,  pitch  the  book  to  the  other  end  of  the  room, 
and  may  never  afterwards  be  brought  to  admit  that 
X.  is  possessor  of  a  solitary  ounce  of  brains.  •  If,  on 
the  other  hand,  Z.  informs  me  that  every  February  he 
goes  out  to  the  leafless  woods  to  hunt  early  snow- 
drops, and  brings  home  bunches  of  them  in  his  hat ; 
or  that  he  prefers  in  woman  a  brown  eye  to  a  blue, 
and  explains  by  early  love  passages  his  reasons  for 


of  a  Man  to  Himself.  189 

the  preference,  I  do  not  get  angry ;  on  the  contrary,  I 
feel  quite  pleased  ;  perhaps,  if  the  matter  is  related 
with  unusual  grace  and  tenderness,  it  is  read  with  a 
certain  moisture  and  dimness  of  eye.  And  the  rea- 
son is  obvious.  The  egotistical  X.  is  barren,  and 
suggests  nothing  beyond  himself,  save  that  he  is  a 
good  deal  better  off  than  I  am  —  a  reflection  much 
pleasanter  to  him  than  it  is  to  me ;  whereas  the 
equally  egotistical  Z.,  with  a  single  sentence  about 
his  snow-drops,  or  his  liking  for  brown  eyes  rather 
than  for  blue,  sends  my  thoughts  wandering  away 
back  among  my  dead  spring-times,  or  wafts  me  the 
odors  of  the  roses  of  those  summers  when  the  color 
of  an  eye  was  of  more  importance  than  it  now  is. 
X.'s  men-servants  and  coach-and-six  do  not  fit  into 
the  life  of  his  reader,  because  in  all  probability  his 
reader  knows  as  much  about  these  things  as  he  knows 
about  Pharaoh ;  Z.'s  snow-drops  and  preferences  of 
color  do,  because  every  one  knows  what  the  spring 
thirst  is,  and  every  one  in  his  time  has  been  enslaved 
by  eyes  whose  color  he  could  not  tell  for  his  life,  but 
which  he  knew  were  the  tendcrest  that  ever  looked 
love,  the  brightest  that  ever  flashed  sunlight.  Mon- 
taigne and  Charles  Lamb  are  egotists  of  the  Z.  class, 
and  the  world  never  wearies  reading  them ;  nor  are 
egotists  of  the  X.  school  absolutely  without  entertain- 
ment. Several  of  these  the  world  reads  assiduously 
too,  although  for  another  reason.  The  avid  vanity  of 
Mr.  Pepys  would  be  gratified  if  made  awai'e  of  the 


190   On  the  Importance  of  a  Man,  &c. 

success  of  his  diary ;  but  curiously  to  inquire  into  the 
reason  of  that  success,  ichy  his  diary  has  been  found 
so  amusing,  would  not  conduce  to  his  comfort. 

After  all,  the  only  thing  a  man  knows  is  himself. 
The  world  outside  he  can  know  only  by  hearsay. 
His  shred  of  personality  is  all  he  has ;  than  that,  he 
is  nothing  richer,  nothing  poorer.  Every  thing  else 
is  mere  accident  and  appendage.  Alexander  must 
not  be  measured  by  the  shoutings  of  his  armies,  nor 
Lazarus  at  Dives'  gates  by  his  sores.  And  a  man 
knows  himself  only  in  part.  In  every  nature,  as  in 
Australia,  there  is  an  unexplored  territory — green, 
well- watered  regions  or  mere  sandy  deserts ;  and  into 
that  territory  experience  is  making  progress  day  by 
day.  We  can  remember  when  we  knew  only  the 
outer  childish  rim  —  and  from  the  crescent  guessed 
the  sphere ;  whether,  as  we  advanced,  these  guesses 
have  been  realized,  each  knows  for  himself. 


A  SHELF  IN  MY  BOOKCASE. 

WHEN  a  man  glances  critically  through  the  circle 
of  his  intimate  friends,  he  is  obliged  to  con- 
fess that  they  are  far  from  being  perfect.  They  pos- 
sess neither  the  beauty  of  Apollo,  nor  the  wisdom  of 
Solon,  nor  the  wit  of  Mercutio,  nor  the  reticence  of 
Napoleon  III.  If  pushed  hard  he  will  be  constrained 
to  admit  that  he  has  known  each  and  all  get  angry 
without  sufficient  occasion,  make  at  times  the  foolish- 
est  remarks,  and  act  as  if  personal  comfort  were  the 
highest  thing  in  their  estimation.  Yet,  driven  thus 
to  the  wall,  forced  to  make  such  uncomfortable  con- 
fessions, our  supposed  man  does  not  like  his  friends 
one  whit  the  less ;  nay,  more,  he  is  aware  that  if  they 
were  very  superior  and  faultless  persons  he  would 
not  be  conscious  of  so  much  kindly  feeling  towards 
them.  The  tide  of  friendship  does  not  rise  high  on 
the  bank  of  perfection.  Amiable  weaknesses  and 
shortcomings  are  the  food  of  love.  It  is  from  the 
roughnesses  and  imperfect  breaks  in  a  man  that  you 
are  able  to  lay  hold  of  him.  If  a  man  be  an  entire  and 
perfect  chrysolite,  you  slide  off  him  and  fall  back  into 

(191) 


192        A  Shelf  in  my  Bookcase. 

ignorance.  My  friends  are  not  perfect  —  no  more  am 
I  —  and  so  we  suit  each  other  admirably.  Their  weak- 
nesses keep  mine  in  countenance,  and  so  save  me 
from  humiliation  and  shame.  .We  give  and  take,  bear 
and  forbear  ;  t'.ie  stupidity  they  utter  to-day  salves  the 
recollection  of  the  stupidity  I  uttered  yesterday  ;  in 
their  want  of  wit  I  see  my  own,  and  so  feel  satisfied 
and  kindly  disposed.  It  is  one  of  the  charitable  dis- 
pensations of  Providence  that  perfection  is  not  essen- 
tial to  friendship.  If  I  had  to  seek  my  perfect  man, 
I  should  wander  the  world  a  good  while,  and  when 
I  found  him,  and  was  down  on  my  knees  before  him, 
he  would,  to  a  certainty,  turn  the  cold  shoulder  on 
me  —  and  so  life  would  be  an  eternal  search,  broken 
by  the  coldness  of  repulse  and  loneliness.  Only  to 
the  perfect  being  in  an  imperfect  world,  or  the  imper- 
fect being  in  a  perfect  world,  is  every  thing  iiTetriev- 
ably  out  of  joint. 

On  a  certain  shelf,  in  the  bookcase  which  stands  in 
the  room  in  which  I  am  at  present  sitting — bookcase 
surmounted  by  a  white  Dante,  looking  out  with  blind, 
majestic  eyes  —  are  collected  a  number  of  volumes 
which  look  somewhat  the  worse  for  wear.  Those  of 
them  which  originally  possessed  gilding  have  had  it 
fingered  off,  each  of  them  has  leaves  turned  down, 
and  they  open  of  themselves  at  places  wherein  I  have 
been  happy,  and  with  whoso  every  word  I  am  familiar 
as  with  the  furniture  of  the  room  in  which  I  nightly 
slumber ;     each  of    them    has  remarks  relevant   and 


A  Shelf  in  my  Bookcase.        193 

irrelevant  scribbled  on  their  margins.  These  favorite 
volumes  cannot  be  called  peculiar  glories  of  literature  ; 
but  out  of  the  world  of  books  havD  I  singled  them,  as 
I  have  singled  my  intimates  out  of  the  world  of  men. 
I  am  on  easy  terms  with  them,  and  feel  that  they 
are  no  higher  than  my  heart.  Milton  is  not  there, 
neither  is  Wordsworth  ;  Shakspeare,  if  he  had  written 
comedies  only,  would  have  been  there  to  a  certainty, 
but  the  presence  of  the^ve  great  tragedies,  —  Hamlet, 
Othello,  Macbeth,  I^ear,  Antony  and  Cleopatra  — 
for  this  last  should  be  always  included  among  his 
supreme  efforts, —  has  made  me  place  him  on  the  shelf 
where  the  mighty  men  repose,  himself  the  mightiest 
of  all.  Reading  Milton  is  like  dining  off  gold  plate 
in  a  company  of  kings  ;  very  splendid,  very  cere- 
monious, and  not  a  little  appalling.  Him  I  read  but 
seldom,  and  only  on  high  days  and  festivals  of  the 
spirit.  Him  I  never  lay  down  without  feeling  my 
appreciation  increased  for  lesser  men  —  never  w^ithout 
the  same  kind  of  comfort  that  one  returning  from  the 
presence  feels  when  he  doffs  respectful  attitude  and 
dress  of  cefemony,  and  subsides  into  old  coat,  familiar 
arm-chair,  and  slippers.  After  long-continued  organ- 
music,  the  jangle  of  the  jews-harp  is  felt  as  an  ex- 
quisite relief.  With  the  volumes  on  the  special  shelf 
I  have  spoken  of,  I  am  quite  at  home,  and  I  feel 
somehow  as  if  they  were  at  home  with  me.  And  as 
to-day  the  trees  bend  to  the  blast,  and  the  rain  comes 
in  dashes  against  my  window,  and  as  I  have  nothing 
13 


194        A  Shelf  in  my  Bookcase. 

to  do  and  cannot  get  out,  and  wish  to  kill  the  hours 
in  as  pleasant  a  manner  as  I  can,  I  shall  even  talk 
about  them,  as  in  sheer  liking  a  man  talks  about  the 
trees  in  his  garden,  or  the  pictures  on  his  wall.  I 
can't  expect  to  say  any  thing  very  new  or  striking,  but 
I  can  give  utterance  to  sincere  affection,  and  that  is 
always  pleasant  to  one's  self  and  generally  not  ungrate- 
ful to  others. 

First,  then,  on  this  special  shelf  stands  Nathaniel 
Hawthorne's  "  Twice-Told  Tales."  It  is  difficult  to 
explain  why  I  like  these  short  sketches  and  essays, 
written  in  the  author's  early  youth,  better  than  his  later, 
more  finished,  and  better-known  novels  and  romances. 
The  world  sets  greater  store  by  "  The  Scarlet  Letter" 
and  "  Transformation  "  than  by  this  little  book  —  and, 
in  such  matters  of  liking  against  the  judgment  of 
the  world,  there  is  no  appeal.  I  think  the  reason  of  my 
liking  consists  in  this  —  that  the  novels  were  written 
for  the  world,  while  the  tales  seein  written  for  the 
author  ;  in  these  he  is  actor  and  audience  in  one.  Con- 
sequently, one  gets  nearer  him,  just  as  one  gets  nearer 
an  artist  in  his  first  sketch  than  in  his  finished  picture. 
And  after  all,  one  takes  the  greatest  pleasure  in  those 
books  in  which  a  peculiar  personality  is  most  clearly 
revealed.  A  thought  may  be  very  commendable  «.s  a 
thought,  but  I  value  it  chiefly  as  a  window  through 
which  I  can  obtain  insight  on  the  thinker;  and  Mr. 
Hawthorne's  personality  is  peculiar,  and  specially 
peculiar  in  a  nev  country  like  America.     He  is  quiet, 


A  Shelf  in  my  Bookcase.        195 

fanciful,  qua'nt,  sncl  his  humor  is  shaded  by  a  certain 
meditutiveness  of  spirit.  Altho/.gh  a  Yankee,  he 
partakes  of  none  of  tlie  characteristics  of  a  Yankee. 
His  thinking  ;md  his  style  have  an  antique  air.  His 
roots  strike  down  through  the  visible  mould  of  the 
present,  and  draw  sustenance  fr^^m  the  generations 
under  ground.  The  ghosts  that  haunt  the  chamber 
of  his  mind  are  the  ghosts  of  dead  men  and  women. 
He  has  a  strong  smack  of  tie  Puritan  ;  ho  wears 
around  him,  in  the  New  England  town,  something  of 
the  darkness  and  mystery  of  the  aboriginal  forest. 
He  is  a  shy,  siknt,  sensitive,  much-ruminating  man, 
with  no  special  overflow  of  animal  spirits.  He  loves 
solitude,  and  tho  things  which  ;  ge  has  made  reverent. 
There  is  nothing  modern  about  him.  Emerson's 
Avriting  has  a  cold,  cheerl:ss  glitter,  like  the  new  fur- 
niture in  a  warehouse,  which  will  come  of  use  by  and 
by  ;  Hawthorne's  the  rich,  subdued  color  of  furniture 
in  a  Tudor  mansion-house  —  which  has  winked  to 
long-extinguished  fires,  which  has  been  toned  by  the 
usage  of  departed  generations.  In  many  of  the 
"  Twice-Told  Talcs "  this  peculiar  personality  is 
charmingly  exhibited.  He  writes  of  the  street  or  the 
sra-shore,  his  eye  takes  in  every  object,  however 
trifling,  and  on  these  he  hangs  comments,  melancholy 
and  humorous.  He  does  not  require  to  go  far  for  a 
subject ;  he  will  stare  on  the  puddle  in  the  street  of 
a  New  England  village,  and  immediately  it  becomes  a 
Mediterranean  Sea,  with  empires  lying  on  its  muddy 


196       A  Shelf  in  my  Bookcase. 

shores.  If  tlie  sermon  be  written  out  fully  in  your 
heart,  almost  any  text  will  be  suitable  —  if  you  have 
to  find  your  sermon  in  your  text,  you  may  search  the 
Testament,  New  and  Old,  and  be  as  poor  at  the  close 
of  Revelation  as  when  you  started  at  the  first  book 
of  Genesis.  Several  of  the  papers  which  I  like  best 
are  monologues,  fanciful,  humorous,  or  melancholy ; 
and  of  these,  my  chief  favorites  aro  —  "  Sunday  at 
Home,'  "  Night  Sketches,'"  "  Footpr'nts  on  the  Sea- 
shore," and  the  "  Seven  Vagabonds."  This  last  seems 
to  me  almost  the  most  exquisite  thing  which  has 
flowed  from  its  author's  pen  —  a  perfect  little  drama  ; 
the  place,  a  showman's  wagon  ;  the  time,  the  falling 
of  a  summer  shower,  full  of  subtle  suggestions, 
which,  if  followed,  will  load  the  reader  away  out  of 
the  story  altogether ;  and  illuminated  by  a  grave, 
wistful  kind  of  humor,  which  plays  in  turns  upon  the 
author's  companions,  and  upon  the  author  himself. 
Of  all  Mr.  Hawthorne's  gifts,  this  gift  of  humor  — 
which  would  light  up  the  skull  and  cross-bones  of  a 
village  churchyard,  which  would  be  silent  at  a  dinner 
table  —  is  to  me  the  most  delightful. 

Th?n  this  writer  has  a  strangely  weird  power.  He 
loves  ruins  like  the  ivy,  he  skims  the  twilight  like 
the  bat,  ho  makes  himself  a  familiar  of  the  phantoms 
of  th3  heart  and  brain.  He  believes  in  ghosts  ;  per- 
haps he  has  seen  one  burst  on  him  from  the  impal- 
pable air.  He  is  fascinated  by  the  jarred  brain  and 
the  ruined  heart.     Other  men   collect  china,  books, 


A  Shelf  in  my  Bookcase.        197 

pictures,  jewels ;  this  writer  collects  sin'^ular  human 
experiences,  ancient  wrongs  and  agonies,  murders 
done  on  unfrequonted  roads,  crimes  that  seem  to  have 
no  motive,  t:nd  all  the  dreary  mysteries  of  the  world 
of  will.  To  his  chamber -of  horrors  Madame  Taus- 
saud's  is  nothing.  With  proud,  prosperous,  healthy 
men,  Mr.  Hawthorne  has  little  sympathy  ;  he  pref  rs 
a  cracked  piano  to  a  new  one ;  he  likes  cobwebs  in 
the  comer  of  his  rooms.  All  this  peculiar  taste  comes 
out  strongly  in  the  little  book  in  whose  praise  I  am 
writing.  I  read  "  The  Minister's  Black  Veil,"  and  find 
it  the  first  sketch  of  the  "  Scarlet  Letter."  In  "  Wake- 
field," —  the  story  of  the  man  who  left  his  wife,  re- 
maining away  twenty  years,  but  who  yet  looked  upon 
her  every  day  to  appease  his  burning  curiosity  as  to 
her  manner  of  enduring  his  absence  —  I  find  the  keen- 
est analysis  of  an  almost  incomprehensible  act.  And 
then  Mr.  Hawthorne  has  a  skill  in  constructing  allego- 
ries which  no  one  of  his  contemporaries,  either  Eng- 
lish or  American,  possesses.  These  allegorical  papers 
may  be  read  with  pleasure,  for  their  ingenuity,  their 
grace,  their  poetical  feeling  ;  but  just  as,  gazing  on  the 
surface  of  a  stream,  admiring  the  ripples  and  eddies, 
and  the  widening  rings  made  by  the  butterfly  falling 
into  it,  you  begin  to  be  conscious  that  there  is  some- 
thing at  the  bottom,  and  gradually  a  dead  face  wavers 
upwards  from  the  oozy  weeds,  becoming  every  mo- 
ment more  clearly  defined,  so  through  Mr.  Hawthorne's 
graceful  sentences,  if  read  attentively,  begins  to  flash 


198        A  Shelf  in  my  Bookcase. 

the  hidden  meaning,  —  a  meaning,  perhaps,  the  writer 
did  not  care  to  express  formally  and  in  set  terms,  and 
which  he  merely  suggests  and  leaves  the  reader  to 
make  out  for  himself.  If  you  have  the  book  I  am 
WTiting  about,  turn  up  "  Uavid  Swan,"  "  The  Great 
Carbuncle,"  "  The  Fancy  Show-box,"  and  after  you 
have  read  these,  you  will  understand  what  I  mean. 

The  next  two  books  on  my  shelf — books  at  this 
moment  leaning  on  the  "  Twice-Told  Tales "  — 
are  Professor  Aytouns  "  Ballads  of  Scotland,"  and 
the  "  Lyra  Germanica."  These  books  I  keep  side  by 
side,  with  a  purpose.  The  forms  of  existence  with 
which  they  deal  seem  widely  separated ;  but  a  strong 
kinship  exists  between  them,  for  all  that.  I  open 
Professor  Aytoun's  book,  and  all  this  modern  lifj  — 
with  its  railways,  its  newspapers,  its  crowded  cities, 
its  Lancashire  distresses,  its  debates  in  Parliament 
—  fades  into  nothingness  and  sQence.  Scotland, 
from  Edinburgh  rock  to  the  Tweed,  stretches  away 
in  rude  spaces  of  moor  and  forest.  The  wind  blows 
across  it,  unpolluted  by  the  smoke  of  towns.  That 
which  lives  now  has  not  yet  come  into  existence  ; 
what  are  to-day  crumbling  and  ivied  ruins,  are  warm 
with  household  fires,  and  filled  with  human  activ- 
ities. Every  Border  keep  is  a  home :  brides  are 
taken  there  in  their  blushes  ;  cliildren  arc  born  there  ; 
gray  men,  tho  crucifix  held  over  them,  die  there. 
The  moon  dances  on  a  plump  of  spears,  as  the  moss- 
troopers, by  secret  and  desert   paths,  ride  over  into 


A  Shelf  in  my  Bookcase.        199 

England  to  lift  a  prey,  and  the  b  ile-fire  on  the  hill 
gives  the  alarm  to  Cumberland.  Men  live  and 
marry,  and  support  wife  and  little  ones  by  steel-jacket 
and  spoar ;  and  the  Flower  of  Yarrow,  when  her 
larder  is  empty,  claps  a  pair  of  spurs  in  her  hus- 
band's platter.  A  time  of  strife  and  foray,  of  plun- 
dering and  burning,  of  stealing  and  reaving  ;  when 
hate  waits  half  a  life-time  for  revengs,  and  where  dif- 
ficulties are  solved  by  the  slash  of  a  SMord-blade.  I 
open  the  German  book,  and  find  a  warfare  conducted 
in  a  different  manner.  Here  the  Devil  rides  about 
wasting  and  destroying.  Here  temptations  lie  in  wait 
for  the  soil ;  here  pleasures,  like  glittering  meteors, 
lure  it  into  marshes  and  abysses.  Watch  and  ward 
are  kept  here,  and  to  sleep  at  the  post  is  death.  For- 
tresses are  built  on  the  rock  of  God's  promises  —  in- 
accessible to  the  arrows  of  the  wicked,  —  and  therein 
dwell  many  trembling  souls.  Conflict  rages  around, 
not  conducted  by  Border  spear  on  barren  moorland, 
biit  by  weapons  of  faith  and  prayer  in  the  devout 
German  heart ;  —  a  strife  earnest  as  the  other,  with 
issues  of  life  and  death.  And  the  resemblance  be- 
tween the  books  lies  in  this,  that  when  we  open  them 
these  past  experiences  and  condit-ons  of  lif3  gleam 
visibly  to  us  far  down  like  *sabme-ged  cities — all 
empty  and  hollow  now,  though  once  filled  with  life  as 
real  as  our  own  —  through  transp  ircnt  waters. 

In    glancing    over    these    German    hymns,  one    is 
struck  by  their  adaptation  to  the  seasons  and  occur- 


200        A  Shelf  in  my  Bookcase. 

rences  of  ordinary  life.  Obviously,  too,  the  writer's 
religion  was  not  a  Sunday  matter  only,  it  had  its 
place  in  week-days  as  well.  In  these  hymns  there 
is  little  gloom  ;  a  healthy  human  cheerfulness  per- 
vades many  of  them,  and  this  is  surely  as  it  ought 
to  be.  These  hymns,  as  I  have  said,  are  adapted 
to  the  occasions  of  ordinary  life,  and  this  sp?a^s 
favorably  of  the  piety  which  produced  them.  I  do 
not  suppose  that  we  English  are  less  religious  than 
other  nations,  bat  we  are  undemonstrative  in  this, 
as  in  most  things.  We  have  the  sincerest  horror  of 
over-dressing  ourselves  in  fine  sentiments.  We  are  a 
little  shy  of  religion.  We  give  it  a  day  entirely  to 
itself,  and  make  it  a  stranger  to  the  other  six.  We 
confine  it  in  churches,  or  in  the  closet  at  home,  and 
never  think  of  taking  it  with  us  to  the  street,  or  into 
our  business,  or  with  us  to  tha  f3stival,  or  the  gather- 
ing of  friends.  Dr.  Arnold  used  to  complain  that  he 
could  get  religious  subjects  treated  in  a  masterly  way, 
but  could  not  get  common  subjects  treated  in  a  re- 
ligious spirit.  The  Germans  have  done  better  ;  they 
have  melted  down  the  Sunday  into  the  week.  They 
have  hymns  embodying  confessions  of  sin,  hymns  in 
the  near  prospect  of  death  ;  and  they  have  —  what  is 
more  important — spiritual  songs  that  maybe  sung  by 
soldiers  on  the  march,  by  the  artisan  at  the  loom,  by 
the  peasant  following  his  team,  by  the  mother  among 
her  children,  and  by  the  maiden  sitting  at  her  wheel 
list?ning  for  the  step  of  her  lover.     Religion  is  thus 


A  Shelf  in  my  Bookcase.       201 

brought  in  to  refine  and  hallow  the  sweet  necessities 
and  emotions  of  life,  tJ  cheer  its  weariness,  and  to 
exalt  its  sordidness.  The  German  life  revolves  like 
the  village  festival  with  the  pastor  in  the  midst — joy 
and  laughter  and  merry  games  do  not  fear  the  holy 
man,  for  he  wears  no  unkindness  in  his  eye,  but  his 
presence  checks  every  thing  boisterous  or  unseemly, 

—  the  rude  word,  the  petulant  act,  —  and  when  it 
has  run  its  course,  he  uplifts  his  hands  and  leaves  his 
benediction  on  his  children. 

The  "  LjTa  Germanica  "  contains  the  utterances  of 
pious  German  souls  in  all  conditions  of  life  during 
many  centuries.  In  it  hjmns  are  to  be  found  written 
not  only  by  poor  clergymen,  and  still  poorer  precen- 
tors, by  riband-manufacturers  and  .shoemakers,  who, 
amid  rude  environments,  had  a  touch  of  celestial  mel- 
ody in  their  hearts,  but  by  noble  ladies  and  gentlemen, 
and  crowned  kings.  The  oldest  in  the  collection  is 
one  written  by  King  Robert  of  France  about  the  year 
1000.  It  is  beautifully  simple  and  pathetic.  State  is 
laid  aside  with  the  crown,  pride  with  the  royal  robe, 
and  Lazarus  at  Dives'  gate  could  not  have  written  out 
of  a  lowlier  heart.  The  kingly  brow  may  bear  itself 
high  enough  before  men,  the  voice  may  be  command- 
ing and  imperious  enough,  cutting  through  contradic- 
tion as  with  a  sword,  but  before  the  highest  all  is  hum- 
bleness and  bended  knees.  Other  compositions  there 
are,  scattered  through  the  volume,  by  great  personages 

—  several  by  Louisa  Henrietta,  Electress  of  Branden- 


202        A  Shelf  in  my  Bookcase. 

burg,  and  Anton  Ulrick,  Duke  of  Brunswick  —  all 
written  two  hundred  years  ago.  These  are  genuine 
poems,  full  of  faith  and  charity,  and  calm  trust  in 
God.  They  are  all  dead  now,  these  nobl?  gentlemen 
and  gentlewomen  ;  their  warfare,  successful  or  ad- 
verse, has  been  long  closed ;  but  they  gleam  yet  in  my 
fancy,  like  the  white  effigies  on  tombs  in  dim  cathe- 
drals, the  marble  palms  pressed  together  on  the  marble 
breast,  the  sword  by  the  side  of  the  knight,  the  psalter 
by  the  side  of  ths  lady,  and  flowing  around  them  the 
scrolls  on  which  are  inscribed  the  texts  of  resurrection. 
This  book  contains  surely  one  of  the  most  touching 
of  human  compositions  —  a  song  of  Luther's.  The 
great  Reformer's  music  resounds  to  this  day  in  our 
churches  ;  and  one  of  the  rude  hymns  he  wrote  h  s 
such  a  step  of  thunder  in  it,  that  the  father  of  Fred- 
erick the  Great,  Mr.  Carlyle  tells  us,  usod  to  call  it 
"  God  Almighty's  Grenadier  March."  This  one  I 
speak  of  is  of  another  mood,  and  is  soft  as  tears.  To 
appreciate  it  thoroughly,  one  must  think  of  the  burly, 
resolute,  humorous,  and  withal  tender-hearted  man, 
and  of  the  work  he  accomplished.  He  it  was,  the 
Franklin's  kite,  led  by  the  highest  hand,  that  went 
up  into  the  papal  thunder-cloud  hanging  black  over 
Europe  ;  and  the  angry  fire  that  broke  upon  it  burned 
it  not,  and  in  roars  of  boltless  thunder  the  apparition 
collapsed,  and  the  sun  of  truth  broke  through  the  inky 
fragments  on  the  nations  once  again.  He  it  was  who 
when  advised  not  to  trust  himself  in  Worms,  declared, 


A  Shelf  in  my  Bookcase.         203 

"  Although  there  be  as  many  devils  in  Worms  as  there 
are  tiles  on  the  house-tops,  I  will  go."'  He  it  was 
who,  when  brought  to  bay  in  the  splendid  assemblage, 
said,  "  It  is  neither  safj  nor  prudent  to  do  aught 
against  conscience.  Here  stand  I  —  I  cannot  do 
otherwise.  God  help  me.  Amen."  The  rock  cannot 
move  — the  lightnings  may  splinter  it.  Think  of  these 
things,  and  then  read  Luther's  "  Christmas  Carol," 
with  its  tender  inscription,  "  Luther  —  written  for  his 
little  son  Hans,  1546."  Coming  from  another  pen, 
the  stanzas  were  perhaps  not  much  ;  coming  from  his, 
they  move  one  like  the  finest  eloquence.  This  song 
sunk  deep  into  the  hearts  of  the  common  people,  and 
is  still  su'-'g  from  the  dome  of  the  Kreuz  Kirche  in 
Dresden  before  daybreak  on  Christmas  morning. 

There  is  no  more  delightful  reading  in  the  world 
than  these  Scottish  ballads.  The  mailed  knight,  the 
Border  psel,  the  moonlight  raid,  the  lady  at  her  bower 
window  —  all  these  have  disappeared  from  the  actual 
world,  and  lead  existence  now  as  songs.  Verses 
and  snatches  of  these  ballads  are  continually  haunt- 
ing and  twittering  about  my  memory,  as  in  sum- 
mer the  swallows  haunt  and  twitter  about  the  eaves 
of  my  dwelling.  I  know  them  so  well,  and  they 
meet  a  mortal  man's  experience  so  fully,  that  I  am 
sure  —  with,  perhaps,  a  little  help  from  Shakspeare  — 
I  could  conduct  the  whole  of  my  business  by  quota- 
tion, —  do  all  its  love-making,  pay  all  its  tavern- 
scores,  quarrel  and  make  friends  again  ^ti  their  words, 


204        A  Shelf  in  my  Bookcase. 

far  better  than  I  could  in  my  own.  If  you  know 
the^e  ballads,  you  will  find  that  they  m'rror  perfectly 
your  every  mood.  If  you  are  weary  and  down-hearted, 
behold,  a  verse  starts  to  your  memory  trembling  with 
the  very  sijh  you  have  heaved.  If  you  are  merry, 
a  stanza  is  dancing  to  the  tune  of  your  own  mirth.  If 
you  love,  be  you  ever  so  much  a  Romeo,  here  is 
the  finest  language  for  your  using.  If  you  hate,  here 
are  words  which  are  daggers.  If  you  like  battle, 
here  for  two  hundred  years  have  trumpets  been  blow- 
ing and  banners  flapping.  If  you  are  dying,  plentiful 
are  the  broken  words  here  which  have  hovered  on 
failing  lips.  Turn  where  you  will,  some  fragment  of 
a  ballad  is  sure  to  meet  you.  Go  into  the  loneliest 
places  of  experience  and  passion,  and  you  discover 
that  you  are  walking  in  human  footprints.  If  you 
should  happen  to  lift  the  first  volume  of  Professor 
Aytoun's  "  Ballads  of  Scotland,"  the  book  of  its 
own  accord  will  open  at  "  Clerk  Saunders,"  and 
by  that  token  you  will  guess  that  the  ballad  has 
been  read  and  re-read  a  thousand  times.  And 
what  a  ballad  it  is !  The  story  in  parts  is  some- 
what perilous  to  deal  with,  but  with  what  instinc- 
tive djlicacy  the  whole  matter  is  managed  !  Then 
what  tragic  pictures,  what  pathos,  what  manly  and 
womanly  love  !  Just  fancy  how  the  sleeping  lovers, 
the  raised  torches,  and  the  faces  of  the  seven 
brothers  looking  on,  would  gleam  on  the  canvas  of 
Mr.  Millais !  — 


A  Shelf  in  my  Bookcase.        205 


"  '  For  in  may  come  my  seven  baulcl  brotliers, 
Wi'  torches  buruing  bri<jht.' 

"  It  was  about  the  midnig-ht  hour, 
Aud  they  were  fa'en  asleep, 
When  in  and  came  lier  seven  brothers. 
And  stood  at  her  bed  feet. 

"  Tlien  out  and  spake  the  first  o'  them, 
'  We  '11  awa'  and  let  them  be.' 
Then  out  and  spake  the  second  o'  them, 
'  His  father  has  nae  mair  than  he.' 

"  Then  out  aud  spake  the  third  o'  them, 
'  I  wot  they  are  lovers  dear.' 
Then  out  and  spake  the  fourth  o'  them, 
'  They  hae  lo'ed  for  mony  a  year.' 

"  Then  out  and  spake  the  fifth  o'  them, 
'  It  were  sin  true  love  to  twain.' 
'  'Twere  shame,'  out  spake  the  sixth  o'  them, 
'  To  slay  a  sleepin<j  man  ! ' 

"  Then  up  and  gat  the  seventh  o'  them. 
And  never  a  word  spake  he, 
But  he  has  stripped  his  bright-brown  brand 
Through  Saunders's  fair  bodie. 

"  Clerk  Saunders  he  started,  and  Margaret  she  turned 
Into  his  arms  as  aslecji  she  lay, 
And  sad  and  silent  was  the  night 
That  was  atweeu  thir  twae." 


Could  a  word  be  added  or  taken  from  these  verses 
without  spoiling  the  effect  ?  Yoi  never  think  of  the 
language,  so  vividly  is  the  picture  impress?d  on  the 
imagination.  I  see  at  this  mornent  the  sleeping  pair, 
the  bright-burning  torches,  the  lowering  faces  of  the 
brethren,  and  the  one  fiercer  and  darker  than  the 
others. 

Pass  we  now  to  the  Second  Part. 


206        A  Shelf  in  my  Bookcase. 

"  Sae  painfully  bIk'  clam'  the  wa', 
She  clam'  the  wa'  up  aft«r  him ; 
Hosen  nor  shouu  upon  her  lect 
She  had  nae  time  to  put  them  on. 

"  '  Is  there  ony  room  at  your  head,  Saunders  ? 
Is  there  ony  room  at  your  feet  ? 
Or  ony  room  at  your  side,  Saunders, 
Where  fain,  fain  I  wad  sleep? '  " 

In  that  last  line  the  very  heart-strings  crack.  She 
is  to  be  pitied"  far  more  than  Clerk  Saunders,  lying 
stark  with  the  cruel  wound  beneath  his  side,  the 
lave-kisses  hardly  cold  yet  upon  his  lips. 

It  may  be  said  that  the  books  of  which  I  have  b  en 
speaking  attain  to  the  highest  literary  excellence  by 
favor  of  simplicity  and  unconsciousness.  Neither 
the  German  nor  the  Scotsman  considered  himself  an 
artist.  The  Scot  sings  a  successful  foray,  in  which 
perhaps  he  was  engaged,  and  he  sings  as  he  fought. 
In  combat  he  did  not  dream  of  putting  himself  in  a 
heroic  position,  or  of  flourishing  his  blade  in  a  manner 
to  be  admired.  A  thrust  of  a  lance  would  soon  have 
finished  him  if  he  had.  The  pious  German  is  over- 
laden with  grief,  or  t  )uched  by  some  blessing  into 
sudden  thankfulness,  and  he  breaks  into  song  as  he 
laughs  from  gladness  or  groans  from  pain.  This 
directness  and  naturalness  give  Scottish  ballad  and 
German  hymn  their  highest  charm.  The  poetic  gold, 
if  rough  and  unpolished,  and  with  no  elaborate  de- 
vices carved  upon  it,  is  free  at  least  from  the  alloy  of 
conceit  and  simulation.  Modern  ^^Titers  might,  with 
benefit  to  themselves,  barter  something  of  their  finish 


A  Shelf  in  my  Bookcase.        207 

and  dexterity  for  that  pure  innocence  of  nature,  and 
child-like  simplicity  and  fearlessness,  full  of  its  own 
emotion,  and  unthinking  of  others  or  of  their  opinions, 
which  characterize  these  old  writings. 

The  eighteenth  century  must  ever  remain  the  most 
brilliant  and  interesting  period  of  English  literary 
history.  It  is  interciUng  not  only  on  account  of  its 
spbndor,  but  because  it  is  so  well  known.  We  are 
familiar  with  the  faces  of  its  great  men  by  portraits, 
and  wilh  the  events  of  their  lives  by  innumerable 
biographies.  Every  reader  is  acquainted  with  Pope's 
restl  ss  jealousy,  Goldsmith's  pitted  countenance  and 
plum-colored  coat,  Johnson's  surly  manners  and 
countless  eccentricities,  and  with  the  tribe  of  poets 
who  lived  for  months  ignorant  of  clean  linen,  who 
were  hunted  by  bailiffs,  who  smelt  of  stale  punch,  and 
who  wrote  descriptions  of  the  feasts  of  the  gods  in 
twopenny  cook-shops.  Manners  and  modes  of  thought 
had  greatly  changed  since  the  century  before.  Mac- 
beth, in  silk  stockings  and  scarlet  coat,  slew  King 
Duncan,  and  the  pit  admired  the  wild  force  occasion- 
ally exhibited  by  the  barbarian  Shakspeare.  In  those 
days  the  Muse  wore  patches,  and  sat  in  a  sumptuous 
boudoir,  and  her  worshippers  surrounded  her  in  high- 
heeled  shoes,  ruffles,  and  powdered  Avigs.  When  the 
poets  wished  to  paint  nature,  they  described  Chloe 
sitting  on  a  green  bank  watching  her  sheep,  or  sighing 
when  Strephon  confessed  his  flame.  And  yet,  with  all 
this  apparent  shallowness,  the  age  was  earnest  enough 


208        A  Shelf  in  my  Bookcase. 

ill  its  way.  It  was  a  good  hater.  It  was  filled  with 
relentless  literary  feuds.  Just  recall  the  lawless  state 
of  things  on  the  Scottish  Border  in  the  olden  time  — 
the  cattle  lifting,  the  house-burning,  the  midnight 
murd3rs,  the  powerful  marauders,  who,  safe  in  numer- 
ous retainers  and  moated  keep,  bade  defiance  to  law 
—  recall  this  state  of  things,  and  imagine  the  quarrels 
and  raids  literary,  the  weapons  satire  and  wit,  and  you 
have  a  good  idea  of  the  darker  aspect  of  the  time. 
There  were  literary  bravoes,  who  hired  themselves  to 
assassinate  reputations.  There  were  literary  reavers, 
who  laid  desolate  at  a  foray  a  whole  generation  of 
wits.  There  were  literary  duels,  fought  out  in  grim 
hate  to  the  very  death.  It  was  dangerous  to  interfere 
in  the  literary  melee.  Every  now  and  then  a  fine 
gentleman  was  run  through  with  a  jest,  or  a  foolish 
Maecenas  stabbed  to  the  heart  with  an  epigram,  and 
his  foolishness  settled  forever. 

As  a  matter  of  course,  on  this  special  shelf  of 
books  will  be  found  Boswell's  "  Life  of  Johnson  "  — 
a  work  in  our  literature  unique,  priceless.  That  alto- 
gether unvenerable  yet  profoundly  venerating  Scottish 
gentleman,  —  that  queerest  mixture  of  qualities,  offeree 
and  weakness,  blindness  and  insight,  vanity  and  solid 
worth,  —  has  written  the  finest  book  of  its  kind  which 
our  nation  possesses.  It  is  quite  impossible  to  over- 
state its  worth.  You  lift  it,  and  immediately  the  inter- 
vening years  disappear,  and  you  arc  in  the  presence 
of  the  Doctor.     You  are  made  free  of  the  last  century, 


A  Shelf  iti  my  Bookcase.        209 

as  you  are  free  of  the  present.  You  double  your 
existence.  The  book  is  a  letter  of  introduction  to  a 
whole  knot  of  departed  English  worthies.  In  virtue 
of  Boswell's  labors,  we  know  Johnson — the  central 
man  of  his  time  —  better  than  Burke  did,  or  Reynolds, 
—  far  better  even  than  Boswell  did.  We  know  how 
he  expressed  himself,  in  what  grooves  his  thoughts 
ran,  how  he  dressed,  how  he  ate,  drank,  and  slept. 
Boswell's  unconscious  art  is  wonderful,  and  so  is  the 
result  attained.  This  book  has  arrested,  as  never 
book  did  before,  time  and  decay,  Bozzy  is  really 
a  wizard  :  he  makes  the  sun  stand  still.  Till  his 
work  is  done,  the  future  stands  respectfully  aloof. 
Out  of  ever- shifting  time  he  has  made  fixed  and  per- 
manent certain  years,  and  in  these  Johnson  talks  and 
argues,  while  Burke  listens,  and  Reynolds  takes  snuff, 
and  Goldsmith,  with  hollowed  hand,  whispers  a  sly 
remark  to  his  neighbor.  There  have  they  sat,  these 
ghosts,  for  seventy  years  now,  looked  at  and  listened 
to  by  the  passing  generations  ;  and  there  they  still  sit, 
the  one  voice  going  on !  Smile  at  Boswell  as  we  may, 
he  was  a  spiritual  phenomenon  quite  as  rare  as  John- 
son. More  than  most  he  deserves  our  gratitude. 
Let  us  hope  that  when  next  Heaven  sends  England 
a  man  like  Johnson,  a  companion  and  listener  like 
Boswell  will  be  provided.  The  Literary  Club  sits 
forever.  What  if  the  Mermaid  were  in  like  eternal 
session,  with  Shakspcare's  laughter  ringing  through 
the  fire  and  hail  of  wit ! 

14 


210        A  Shelf  in  my  Bookcase. 

By  the  strangest  freak  of  chance  or  liking,  the  next 
book  on  my  shelf  contains  the  poems  of  Ebenezer 
Elliott,  the  Corn-law  Rhymer,  This  volume  adorned, 
by  a  hideous  portrait  in  lithograph  of  the  author,  I 
can  well  remember  picking  up  at  a  bookstall  for  a 
few  pence  many  years  ago.  It  seems  curious  to  me 
that  this  man  is  not  in  these  days  better  kno^vn.  A 
more  singular  man  has  seldom  existed,  —  seldom  a 
more  genuine.  His  first  business  speculation  failed, 
but  when  about  forty  he  commenced  again,  and  this 
time  fortune  made  amends  for  her  former  ill-treatment. 
His  warehouse  was  a  small,  dingy  place,  filled  with 
bars  of  iron,  with  a  bust  of  Shakspeare  looking  down 
on  the  whole.  His  country-house  contained  busts  of 
Achilles,  Ajax,  and  Napoleon.  Here  is  a  poet  who 
earned  a  competence  as  an  iron-merchant ;  here  is  a 
monomaniac  on  the  Corn-laws,  who  laved  nature  as 
intensely  as  ever  did  Burns  or  Wordsworth.  Here  is 
a  John  Bright  uttering  himself  in  fiery  and  melodious 
verse,  —  Apollo  with  iron-dust  on  his  facs,  wander- 
ing among  the  Sheffield  knife-grinders  !  If  you  wish 
to  form  some  idea  of  the  fierce  discontent  which 
thirty  years  ago  existed  amongst  the  working  men 
of  England,  you  should  read  the  Corn-law  Bhymes. 
The  Corn-laws  are  to  him  the  twelve  plagues  of 
Egypt  rolled  together.  On  account  of  them,  he  d^^- 
nounces  his  country  as  the  Hebrew  prophets  were 
wont  to  denounce  T>Te  and  Sidon.  His  rage  breaks 
out  into  curses,  which   are   not  forgiveness.      He  is 


A  Shelf  in  my  Bookcase.       211 

maddened  by  the  memory  of  Pcterloo.  Never,  per- 
haps, was  a  sane  human  being  so  tyrannized  over  by 
a  single  idea.  A  skeleton  was  found  on  one  of  the 
Derbyshire  hills.  Had  the  man  been  crossed  in  love  ? 
had  he  crept  up  there  to  die  in  presence  of  the  stars  ? 
"  Not  at  all,"  cries  Elliott ;  "  he  was  a  victim  of  the 
Corn-laws,  who  preferred  dying  on  the  mountain-top 
to  receiving  parish  pay."  In  his  wild  poem  all  the 
evil  kings  in  Hades  descend  from  their  thrones  when 
King  George  enters.  They  only  let  slip  the  dogs  of 
war  ;  lie  taxed  the  people's  bread.  "  Sleep  on,  proud 
Britoness  !  "  he  exclaims  over  a  woman  at  rest  in  the 
grave  she  had  purchased.  In  one  of  his  articles  in 
Tail's  Magazine,  he  seriously  proposed  that  tragedies 
should  be  written  showing  the  evils  of  the  Corn-laws, 
and  that  on  a  given  night  they  should  be  performed 
in  every  th-^atre  of  the  kin;^;;dom,  so  that  the  nation 
might,  by  the  speediest  possible  process,  be  convcrtc^d 
to  the  gospel  of  Free-trade.  In  his  eyes  the  Corn- 
laws  had  gathered  into  their  black  bosoms  every  hu- 
man wrong  ;  repeal  them,  and  lo  !  the  new  heavens 
and  the  new  earth  !  A  poor  and  shallow  theory  of 
the  universe,  you  will  say  ;  but  it  is  astonishing  what 
poetry  he  contrives  to  extract  out  of  it.  It  is  hardly 
possible,  without  quotation,  to  give  an  idea  of  the 
rage  and  fury  which  pervade  these  poems.  He  curses 
his  political  opponents  with  his  whole  heart  and  soul. 
He  pillories  them,  and  pelts  them  with  dead  cats  and 
rotten    eggs.     The    eai-nestness   of  his    mood   has    a 


212       A  Shelf  in  my  Bookcase. 

certain  ten-or  in  it  for  meek  and  quiet  people.  His 
poems  are  of  the  angriest,  but  their  anger  is  not  alto- 
gether undivine.  His  scorn  blisters  and  scalds,  his 
sarcasm  flays ;  but  then  outside  nature  is  constantly 
touching  him  with  a  summer  breeze  or  a  branch  of 
pink  and  white  apple-blossom,  and  his  mood  becomes 
tenderness  itself.  He  is  far  from  being  lachrymose  ; 
and  when  he  is  pathetic,  he  affects  one  as  when  a 
strong  man  sobs.  His  anger  is  not  nearly  so  frightful 
as  his  tears.  I  cannot  understand  why  Elliott  is  so 
little  read.  Other  names  not  particularly  remarkable 
I  meet  in  the  current  reviews  —  his  never.  His  book 
stands  on  my  shelf,  but  on  no  other  have  I  seen 
it.  This  I  think  strange,  because,  apart  from  the  in- 
trinsic value  of  his  verse  as  verse,  it  has  an  histori- 
cal value.  Evil  times,  and  embittered  feelings,  now 
happily  passed  away,  are  preserved  in  his  books,  like 
Pompeii  and  Herculane-.m  in  Vesuvian  lava.  He 
was  a  poet  of  the  poor,  but  in  a  quite  peculiar 
sense.  Burns,  Crabbe,  Wordsworth,  were  poets  of 
the  poor,  but  mainly  of  the  peasant  poor.  Elliott  is 
the  poet  of  the  English  artisans — men  who  read  news- 
papers and  books,  who  are  members  of  mechanics' 
institutes,  who  attend  debating  societies,  who  discuss 
political  measures  and  political  men,  who  are  tormented 
by  ideas  —  a  very  different  kind  of  persons  altogether. 
It  is  easier  to  find  poetry  bene  ith  the  blowing  haw- 
thorn tlian  beneath  the  plumes  of  factory  or  furnace 
smoke.     In    such   uninviting    atmospheres  Ebenezer 


A  Shelf  in  my  Bookcase.        213 

Elliott  found  his ;   and  I  am   amazed  that  the  world 
does  not  hold  it  in  greater  regard,  if  for  nothing  else 

than  for  its  singularity. 

There  is  many  another  book  on  my  shelf  on  which 
I  might  dilate,  but  this  gossiping  must  be  drawn  to  a 
close.  When  I  began,  the  wind  was  bending  the 
trees,  and  the  rain  came  against  the  window  in  quick, 
petulant  dashes.  For  hours  now,  wind  and  rain  have 
ceased,  the  trees  are  motionless,  the  garden  walk  is 
dry.  The  early  light  of  wintry  sunset  is  falling  across 
my  paper,  and,  as  I  look  up,  the  white  Dante  opposite 
is  dipped  in  tender  rose.  Less  stern  he  looks,  but 
not  less  sad,  than  he  did  in  the  morning.  The  sky  is 
cloar,  and  an  arm  of  bleak  pink  vapor  stretches  up 
into  its  depths.  The  air  is  cold  with  frost,  and  the 
rain  which  those  dark  clouds  in  the  east  hold  will  fall 
during  the  night  in  silent,  feathery  flakes.  When  I 
wake  to-morrow,  the  world  Avill  be  changed,  frosty 
forests  will  cover  my  bedroom  panes,  the  tree  branches 
will  be  fuiTed  with  snows  ;  and  to  the  crumbs  which  it 
is  my  daily  custom  to  sprinkle  on  the  shrubbery  walk 
will  come  the  lineal  descendant  of  the  charitable  red- 
breast that  covered  up  with  leaves  the  sleeping 
children  in  the  wood. 


GEOFFREY   CHAUCER. 

CHAUCER  is  admitted  on  all  hands  to  be  a  great 
poet,  but,  by  the  general  public  at  least,  he  is  not 
frequently  read.  He  is  like  a  cardinal  virtue,  a  good 
deal  talked  about,  a  good  deal  praised,  honored  by 
a  vast  amount  of  distant  admiration,  but  with  little 
practical  acquaintance.  And  for  this  there  are  many 
and  obvious  reasons.  He  is  an  ancient,  and  the  rich 
old  mahogany  is  neglected  for  the  new  and  glittering 
veneer.  He  is  occasionally  gross  ;  often  tedious  and 
obscure  ;  he  frequently  leaves  a  couple  of  lover-!  to  cite 
the  opinions  of  Greek  and  Roman  authors  ;  and  prac- 
tice and  patience  are  required  to  melt  the  frost  of  his 
orthography,  and  let  his  music  flow  freely.  In  the 
conduct  of  his  stories  he  is  garrulous,  homely,  and 
sloM'-paced.  He  wrote  in  a  leisurely  world,  when 
there  was  plenty  of  time  for  writing  and  reading  ;  long 
before  the  advent  of  the  printer's  devil  or  of  Mr. 
Mudie.  There  is  little  of  the  IjTical  element  in  him. 
He  does  not  dazzle  by  sentences.  He  is  not  quotable. 
He  does  not  shine  in  extracts  so  much  as  in  entire 
poems.  There  is  a  pleasant  equality  about  his  writing  : 

(214) 


Geoffrey   Chaucer.  215 

he  advances  through  a  story  at  an  even  pace,  glan- 
cing round  him  on  every  thing  with  curious,  humorous 
eyes,  and  having  his  say  about  every  thing.  He 
is  the  prince  of  story-tellers,  and  however  much  he 
may  move  others,  he  is  not  moved  himself.  His 
mood  is  so  kindly  that  he  seems  always  to  have 
written  after  dinner,  or  after  hearing  good  news  — 
that  he  had  received  from  the  king  another  grant 
of  wine,  for  instance  —  and  he  discourses  of  love 
and  lovers'  raptures,  and  the  disappointments  of  life, 
half  sportively,  half  sadly,  like  one  who  has  passed 
through  all,  felt  the  sweetness  and  the  bitterness  of 
it,  and  been  able  to  strike  a  balance.  He  had  his 
share  of  crosses  and  misfortunes,  but  his  was  a 
nature  which  time  and  sorrow  could  only  mellow  and 
sweeten ;  and  for  all  that  had  come  and  gone,  he 
loved  his  "  books  clothed  in  black  and  red,"  to  sit  at 
good  men's  feasts ;  and  if  silent  at  table,  as  the  Coun- 
tess of  Pembroke  reported,  the  "  stain  upon  his  lip 
was  wine."  Chaucer's  face  is  to  his  writings  the  best 
preface  and  commentary ;  it  is  contented-looking, 
like  one  familiar  with  pleasant  thoughts,  shy  and 
self-contained  somewhat,  as  if  he  preferred  his  own 
company  to  the  noisy  and  rude  companionship  of  his 
fellows  ;  and  the  outlines  are  bland,  fleshy,  voluptuous, 
as  of  one  who  had  a  keen  relish  for  the  pleasures  that 
leave  no  bitter  traces.  Tears  and  mental  trouble, 
and  the  agonies  of  doubt,  you  cannot  think  of  in 
connection   with   it ;  laughter   is   sheathed  in  it,  the 


216  Geoffrey   Chaucer. 

light  of  a  smile  is  diffused  over  it.  In  face  and  turn 
of  genius  he  differs  in  every  respect  from  his  successor, 
Spenser  ;  and  in  truth,  in  Chaucer  and  Spenser  we 
see  the  fountains  of  the  two  main  streams  of  British 
song :  the  one  flowing  through  the  drama  and  the 
humorous  narrative,  the  other  through  the  epic  and 
the  didactic  poem.  Chaucer  rooted  himself  firmly 
in  fact,  and  looked  out  upon  the  world  in  a  half 
humorous,  half  melancholy  mood.  Spenser  had  but 
little  knowledge  of  men  as  men ;  the  cardinal  virtues 
■were  the  personages  he  was  acquainted  with ;  in 
every  thing  he  was  "  high  fantastical,"  and,  as  a  conse- 
quence, he  exhibits  neither  humor  nor  pathos. 
Chaucer  was  thoroughly  national ;  his  characters, 
place  them  where  he  may  —  in  Thebes  or  Tartary  — 
are  natives  of  one  or  other  of  the  English  shires. 
Spenser's  genius  was  country-less  as  Ariel ;  search  ever 
so  diligently,  you  will  not  find  an  English  daisy  in  all 
his  enchanted  forests.  Chaucer  was  tolerant  of  every 
thing,  the  vices  not  excepted ;  morally  speaking,  an 
easy-going  man,  he  took  the  world  as  it  came,  and 
did  not  fancy  himself  a  whit  better  than  his  fellows. 
Spenser  was  a  Platonist,  and  fed  his  grave  spirit  on 
high  speculations  and  moralities.  Severe  and  chival- 
rous, dreaming  of  things  to  come,  unsuppled  by 
luxury,  unenslaved  by  passion,  somewhat  scornful  and 
self-sustained,  it  needed  but  a  tpannous  king,  an  elec- 
trical political  atmosphere,  and  a  deeper  interest  in 
theology,  to  make  a  Puritan  of  him,  as  these  things 


Geoffrey   Chaucer.  217 

made  a  Puritan  of  Milton.  The  differences  between 
Chaucer  and  Spenser  are  seen  at  a  glance  in  their 
portraits.  Chaucer's  face  is  round,  good-humored, 
constitutionally  pensive,  and  thoughtful.  You  see  in 
it  that  he  has  often  been  amused,  and  that  he  may 
easily  be  amused  again.  Spenser's  is  of  sharper  and 
keener  feature,  disdainful,  and  breathing  that  severity 
Avhich  appertains  to  so  many  of  the  Elizabethan  men. 
A  fourteenth-century  child,  with  delicate  prescience, 
would  have  asked  Chaucer  to  assist  her  in  a  strait, 
and  would  not  have  been  disappointed.  A  sixteenth- 
century  child  in  like  circumstances  would  have 
shrunk  from  drawing  on  herself  the  regards  of  the 
sterner-looking  man.  We  can  trace  the  descent  of 
the  Chaucerian  face  and  genius  in  Shakspeare  and 
Scott,  of  the  Spenserian  in  Milton  and  Wordsworth. 
In  our  own  day,  Mr.  Browning  takes  after  Chaucer, 
Mr.  Tennyson  takes  after  Spenser. 

Hazlitt,  writing  of  the  four  great  English  poets,  tells 
us,  Chaucer's  characteristic  is  intensity,  Spenser's  re- 
moteness, Milton's  sublimity,  and  Shakspeare's  every 
thing.  The  sentence  is  epigrammatic  and  memora-  ^ 
ble  enough  ;  but  so  far  as  Chaucer  is  concerned,  it 
requires  a  little  explanation.  He  is  not  intense,  for 
instance,  as  Byron  is  intense,  or  as  Wordsworth  is  in- 
tense. He  does  not  see  man  like  the  one,  nor  nature 
like  the  other.  He  would  not  have  cared  much  for 
ether  of  these  poets.  And  yet,  so  far  as  straight- 
forwardness in  dealing  with  a  subject,  and  complete 


218  Geoffrey   Chaucer. 

though  quiet  realization  of  it  goes  to  make  up  in- 
tensity of  poetic  mood,  Chaucer  amply  justifies  his 
critic.  There  is  no  wastefulness  or  explosiveness 
about  the  old  writer.  He  does  his  work  silently, 
and  with  no  appearance  of  effort.  His  poetry  shines 
upon  us  like  a  May  morning,  but  the  streak  over 
the  eastern  hill,  the  dew  on  the  grass,  the  wind  that 
bathes  the  brows  of  the  wayfarer  are  not  there  by 
hap-hazard ;  they  are  the  results  of  occult  forces,  a 
whole  solar  system  has  had  a  hand  in  their  produc- 
tion. From  the  apparent  ease  with  which  an  artist 
works,  one  does  not  readily  give  him  cvedit  for  the 
mental  force  he  is  continuously  putting  forth.  To 
many  people  a  chaotic  "  Festus "  is  more  wonderful 
than  a  rounded,  melodious  "  Princess."  The  load 
which  a  strong  man  bears  gracefully  does  not  seam 
so  heavy  as  the  load  which  the  weaker  man  staggers 
under.  Incompletion  is  force  fighting  ;  completion  is 
force  quiescent,  its  work  done.  Nature" s  forces  are 
patent  enough  in  some  scanned  volcanic  moon  in 
which  no  creature  can  breathe ;  only  the  sage,  in 
some  soft  green  earth,  can  discover  the  same  forces 
reft  of  fierceness  and  terror,  and  translated  into  sun- 
shine and  falling  dew,  and  the  rainbow  gleaming  on 
the  shower.  It  is  somewhat  in  this  way  that  the 
propriety  of  Hazlitt's  criticism  is  to  be  vindicated. 
Chaucer  is  the  most  simple,  natural,  and  homely  of 
our  poets,  and  whatever  he  attempts  he  does  thor- 
oughly.     The   Wife  of  Bath  is  so  distinctly  limned 


Geoffrey   Chaucer.  219 

that  she  could  sit  for  her  portrait.  You  can  count 
the  embroitlcrcd  sprigs  in  the  jerkin  of  the  squire. 
You  hear  the  pilgrims  laugh  as  they  ride  to  Canter- 
bury. The  whole  thing  is  admirably  life-like  and 
seems  easy,  and  in  the  seeming  easiness  we  are  apt 
to  forget  the  imaginative  sympathy  which  bodies  forth 
the  characters,  and  the  joy  and  sorrow  from  which 
that  sympathy  has  drawn  nurture.  Unseen  by  us  the 
ore  has  been  dug,  and  smelted  in  secret  furnaces,  and 
when  it  is  poured  into  perfect  moulds,  we  are  apt  to 
forget  by  what  potency  the  whole  thing  has  been 
brought  about. 

And,  with  his  noticing  eyes,  into  what  a  brilliant, 
many-tinted  world  was  Chaucer  bom.  In  his  day 
life  had  a  certain  breadth,  color,  and  picturesqueness 
which  it  does  not  possoss  now.  It  wore  a  braver 
dress,  and  flaunted  more  in  the  sun.  Five  centuries 
effect  a  great  change  on  manners.  A  man  may  now- 
adays, and  without  the  slightest  suspicion  of  the  fact, 
brush  clothes  with  half  the  English  peerage  on  a 
simny  afternoon  in  Pall  Mail.  Then  it  was  quite 
different.  The  fourteenth  century  loved  magnificence 
and  show.  Great  lords  kept  princely  state  in  the 
country  ;  and  when  they  came  abroad,  what  a  retinue, 
what  waving  of  plumes,  and  shaking  of  banners,  and 
glittering  of  rich  drosses  !  Religion  was  picturesque, 
with  dignitaries  and  cathedrals,  and  fuming  incense, 
and  the  Host  carried  through  the  streets.  The 
franklin  kept  open  house,  the  city  merchant,  feasted 


220  Geoffrey   CTiaucer. 

kings,  the  outlaw  roasted  his  venison  beneath  the 
greenwood  tree.  There  was  a  gallant  monarch  and 
a  gallant  court.  The  eyes  of  the  Countess  of  Salis- 
bury shed  influence  ;  Maid  Marian  laughed  in  Sher- 
wood. London  is  already  a  considerable  place, 
numbering,  perhaps,  two  hundred  thousand  inhabit- 
ants, the  houses  clustering  close  and  high  along  the 
river  banks  ;  and  on  the  beautiful  April  nights  the 
nightingabs  are  singing  round  the  suburban  villa.'^^es 
of  Strand,  Holborn,  and  Charing.  It  is  rich  withal ; 
for  after  the  battle  of  Poitiers,  Harry  Picard,  wine- 
merchant  and  Lord  Mayor,  entertained  in  the  city 
fovu:  kings,  —  to  wit,  Edward,  king  of  England,  John, 
king  of  France,  David,  king  of  Scotland,  and  the  king 
of  Cyprus,  —  and  the  last-named  potentate,  slightly 
heated  with  Harry's  wine,  engaged  him  at  dice,  and 
being  nearly  ruined  thereby,  the  honest  wine-merchant 
returned  the  poor  king  his  money,  which  was  received 
with  all  thankfulness.  There  is  great  stir  on  a  sum- 
mer's morning  in  that  Warwickshire  castle — pawing  of 
horses,  tossing  of  bridles,  clanking  of  spurs.  The  old 
lord  climbs  at  last  into  his  saddle,  and  rides  off  to 
court,  his  favorite  falcon  on  his  ^^Tist,  four  squires  in 
immediate  attendance  carrying  his  arms,  and  be- 
hind these  stretches  a  merry  cavalcade,  on  which  the 
chestn '.ts  shed  their  milky  blossoms.  In  the  absence 
of  the  old  peer,  young  Hopeful  spends  his  time  as 
befits  his  rank  and  expectations.  He  grooms  his 
steed,  plays  with  his  hawks,  feeds  his  hounds,  and 


Geoffrey   Chaucer.  221 

labors  diligently  to  acquire  grace  and  dexterity  in 
the  use  of  arms.  At  noon  the  portcullis  is  lowered, 
and  out  shoots  a  brilliant  array  of  ladies  and  gentle- 
men, and  falconers  with  hawks.  They  bend  their 
course  to  the  river,  over  which  a  rainbow  is  rising 
from  a  shower.  Yonder  young  lady  is  laughing  at 
our  stripling  squire,  who  seems  half  angry,  half  pleased : 
they  are  lovers,  depend  upon  it.  A  few  years,  and 
the  merry  beauty  will  have  become  a  noble,  gracious 
woman,  and  the  young  fellow,  sitting  by  a  watch-fire 
on  the  eve  of  Cressy,  will  wonder  if  she  is  thinking  of 
him.  But  the  river  is  already  reached.  Up  flies  the 
alarmed  heron,  his^ong  blue  legs  trailing  behind  him  ; 
a  hawk  is  let  loose  ;  the  young  lady's  laugh  has  ceased, 
as  with  gloved  hand  shading  fair  forehead  and  sweet 
gray  eye,  she  watches  hawk  and  heron  lessening  in 
heaven.  The  Crusades  are  now  over,  but  the  religious 
fervor  which  inspired  them  lingered  behind  ;  so  that, 
even  in  Chaucer's  day.  Christian  kings,  when  their 
consciences  were  oppressed  by  a  crime  more  than 
usually  weighty,  talked  of  making  an  effort  before 
they  died  to  wrest  Jerusalem  and  the  sepulchre  of 
Christ  from  the  grasp  of  the  infidel.  England  had  at 
this  time  several  holy  shrines,  the  most  famous  being 
that  of  Thomas  a  Becket  at  Canterbury,  which  at- 
tracted crowds  of  pilgrims.  The  devout  travelled  in 
large  companies  ;  and,  in  the  May  mornings,  a  merry 
sight  it  was,  as,  with  infinite  clatter  and  merriment, 
with  bells,  minstrels,  and  buffoons,  they  passed  through 


222  Geoffrey   Chaucer. 

thorp  and  village,  bound  for  the  tomb  of  St.  Thomas. 
The  pageant  of  events,  which  seems  enchantment  when 
chronicled  by  Froissart's  splendid  pen,  was  to  Chaucer 
contemporaneous  incident :  the  chivalric  richness  was 
the  familiar  and  every-day  dress  of  his  time.  Into 
this  princely  element  he  was  endued,  and  he  saw 
every  side  of  it — the  frieze  as  well  as  the  cloth  of  gold. 
In  the  "  Canterbury  Tales"  the  fourteenth  century 
murmurs,  as  the  sea  murmurs  in  the  pink-mouthed 
shells  upon  our  mantelpieces. 

Of  his  life  we  do  not  know  much.  In  his  youth  he 
studied  law  and  disliked  it — a  circumstance  common 
enough  in  the  lives  of  men  of  letters,  from  hi^  time 
to  that  of  Shirley  Brooks.  How  he  lived,  what  he 
did,  when  he  Avas  a  student,  we  are  unable  to  dis- 
cover. Only  for  a  moment  is  the  curtain  lifted,  and 
we  behold,  in  the  old,  quaint  peaked  and  gabled  Fleet 
Street  of  that  day,  Chaucer  thrashin;^  a  Franciscan 
friar,  (friar's  offence  unknown,)  for  which  amusement 
he  was  next  morning  fined  two  shillings.  History, 
has  preserved  this  for  us,  but  has  forgotten  all  the  rest 
of  his  early  life,  and  the  chronology  of  all  his  poems. 
What  curious  flies  are  sometimes  found  in  the  historic 
amber !  On  Chaucer's  own  authority,  we  know  that 
he  served  under  Edward  III.  in  his  French  campaign, 
and  that  he  for  some  time  lay  ii  a  French  prison. 
On  his  return  from  captivity  he  married  :  he  was  a 
valet  in  the  king's  household ;  he  w  s  sent  on  an 
embassy  to  Genoa,  and  is  supposed  to  have  visited 


Geoffrey   Chaucer.  223 

Petrarch,  then  resident  at  Padua,  and  to  have  heard 
from  his  lips  the  story  of  "  Griselda,"  —  a  tradition 
which  one  would  like  to  believe.  He  had  his  share 
of  the  sweets  and  the  bitters  of  life.  He  enjoyed 
offices  and  gifts  of  wine,  and  he  felt  the  pangs  of 
poverty  and  the  sickness  of  hope  deferred.  He  was 
comptroller  of  the  customs  for  wools ;  from  which 
post  he  was  dismissed — xohy,  we  know  not,  although 
one  cannot  help  remembering  that  Edward  made  the 
writing  out  of  the  accounts  in  Chaucer's  own  hand 
the  condition  of  his  holding  office,  and  having  one's 
surmises.  Forei^jjn  countries,  strange  manners,  meet- 
ings with  celebrated  men,  love  of  wife  and  children, 
and  their  deaths,  freedom  and  captivity,  the  light  of 
a  king's  smile  and  its  withdrawal,  furnished  ample 
matter  of  meditation  to  his  humane  and  thoughtful 
spirit.  In  his  youth  he  wrote  allegories,  full  of  ladies 
and  knights  dwelling  in  impossible  forests,  and  nursing 
impossible  passions,  but,  in  his  declining  years,  when 
fortune  had  done  all  it  could  for  him  and  all  it  could 
against  him,  he  discarded  these  dreams,  and  betook 
himself  to  the  actual  stuff  of  human  nature.  Instead 
of  the  "Romance  of  the  Rose,"  we  have  the  "  Canter- 
bury Tales,"  and  the  first  great  English  Poet.  One 
likes  to  fancy  Chaucer  in  his  declining  days,  living  at 
Woodstock,  with  his  books  about  him,  and  where  he 
could  watch  the  daisies  opening  themselves  at  sunrise, 
shutting  themselves  at  sunset,  and  composing  his 
wonderful   stories   in  which    the    fourteenth    century 


224  Geoffrey   Chaucer. 

lives,  —  riding  to  battle  in  iron  gear,  hawking  in  em- 
broidered jerkin  and  waving  plume,  sitting  in  rich 
and  solemn  feast  the  monarch  on  the  dais. 

Chaucer's  early  poems  have  music  and  fancy,  they 
are  full  of  a  natural  delight  in  sunshine  and  the  green- 
ness of  foliage,  but  they  have  little  human  interest. 
They  are  allegories  for  the  most  part,  more  or  less 
satisfactorily  wrought  out.  The  allegorical  turn  of 
thought,  the  delight  in  pageantry,  the  "  clothing  upon" 
of  abstractions  with  human  forms,  flowered  originally 
out  of  chivalry  and  the  feudal  times.  Chaucer  im- 
ported it  from  the  French,  and  was  proud  of  it  in  his 
early  poems,  as  a*young  feUow  of  that  day  might  be 
proud  of  his  horse  furniture,  his  attire,  his  waving 
plume.  And  the  poetic  fashion  thus  sot  retained 
its  vitality  for  a  long  while,  —  indeed,  it  was  only 
thoroughly  made  an  end  of  by  the  French  Revolu- 
tion, which  made  an  end  of  so  much  else.  About 
the  last  trace  of  its  influence  is  to  be  found  in  Burns's 
sentimental  correspondence  with  Mrs.  M'Lehose,  in 
which  the  lady  is  addressed  as  Clarinda,  and  the  poet 
signs  himself  Sylvander.  It  was  at  best  a  mere 
beautifid  gauze  screen  drawn  between  the  poet  and 
nature,  and  passion  put  his  foot  through  it  at  once. 
After  Chaucer's  youth  was  over,  he  discarded  some- 
what scornfully  these  abstractions  and  shows  of  things. 
The  "  Flower  and  the  Leaf"  is  a  beautifully-tinted 
dream  ;  the  "  Cant?rbury  Tales "  are  as  real  as  any 
thing  in  Shakspearc  or  Burns.  The  ladies  in  the  earlier 


Geoffrey   Chaucer.  225 

poems  dwell  in  forests,  and  ^'ear  coronals  on  their 
heads ;  the  people  in  the  "  Tales  "  are  engaged  in  the 
actual  concerns  of  life,  and  you  can  see  the  splashes 
of  mire  upon  their  clothes.  The  separate  poems  which 
make  up  the  "  Canterbui'y  Tales  "  wex'e  probably  written 
at  different  periods,  after  youth  was  gone,  and  when 
he  had  fallen  out  of  love  with  florid  imagery  and 
allegorical  conceits  ;  and  we  can  fancy  him,  perhaps 
fallen  on  evil  days  and  in  retirement,  anxious  to 
gather  up  these  loose  efforts  into  one  consummate 
whole.  If  of  his  flowers  he  would  make  a  bouquet 
for  posterity,  it  was  of  courso  necessary  to  procure  a 
string  to  tie  them  together.  These  necessities,  which 
ruin  other  men,  are  the  fortunate  chances  of  great 
poets.  Then  it  was  that  the  idea  arose  of  a  meeting 
of  pilgrims  at  the  Tabard  in  Southwark,  of  their  riding 
to  Canterbury,  and  of  the  diff'erent  personages  relating 
stories  to  beguile  the  tedium  of  the  journey.  The 
notion  was  a  happy  one,  and  the  execution  is  superb. 
In  those  days,  as  we  know,  pilgrimages  were  of  frequent 
occurrence  ;  and  in  the  motley  group  that  congregated 
on  such  occasions,  the  painter  of  character  had  full 
scope.  All  conditions  of  people  are  comprised  in 
the  noisy  band  issuing  from  the  courtyard  of  the 
Southwark  inn  on  that  May  morning  in  the  four- 
teenth century.  Let  us  go  nearer  and  have  a  look 
at  them  ! 

There  is  a  grave  and  gentle  knight,  who  has  fought 
in  many  wars,  and  who  has  many  a  time  hurled  his 
15 


226  Geoffrey   Chaucer. 

adversary  down  in  toinpament  before  the  eyes  of  all 
the  ladies  there,  and  who  has  taken  the  place  of 
honor  at  many  a  mighty  feast.  There,  riding  beside 
him,  is  a  blooming  squire,  his  son,  fresh  as  the  month 
of  May,  singing  day  and  night  from  very  gladness  of 
heart  —  an  impetuous  young  fellow,  who  is  looking 
forward  to  the  time  when  he  will  flesh  his  maiden 
sword,  and  shout  his  first  war-cry  in  a  stricken  field. 
There  is  an  abbot  mounted  on  a  brown  steed.  He 
is  middle-aged ;  his  bald  crown  shines  like  glass,  and 
his  face  looks  as  if  it  were  anointed  with  oil.  He 
has  been  a  valiant  trencher-man  at  many  a  well- 
furnished  feast.  Above  all  things,  he  loves  hunting ; 
and  when  he  rides,  men  can  hear  his  bridle  ringin:^  in 
the  whistling  wind  load  and  clear  as  a  chapel  bell. 
There  is  a  thin,  ill-conditioned  clerk,  perched  peril- 
ously on  a  steed  as  thin  and  ill-conditioned  as  himself. 
He  will  never  be  rich,  I  fear.  He  is  a  great  student, 
and  would  rather  have  a  few  books  bound  in  black 
and  red  hanging  above  his  bed  than  be  sheriff  of  the 
county.  There  is  a  prioress  so  gentle  and  tender- 
hearted, that  she  weeps  if  she  hears  the  whimper  of  a 
beaten  hound,  or  sees  a  mouse  caught  in  a  trap. 
There  rides  the  laughing  Wife  of  Bath,  bold-faced 
and  fair.  She  is  an  adept  in  love-matters.  Five 
husbands  already  "  she  has  fried  in  her  own  grease  " 
till  they  were  glad  to  get  into  their  graves  to  escape 
the  scourge  of  her  tongue  —  Heaven  rest  their  souls, 
and  swiftly  send  a  sixth !    She  wears  a  hat  large  as 


Geoffrey   Chaucer.  227 

a  targe  or  buckler,  brings  the  artillery  of  her  eyes  to 
bear  on  the  young  squire,  and  jokes  him  about  his 
sweetheart.  Beside  her  is  a  worthy  parson,  who  de- 
livers faithfully  the  message  of  his  Master.  Although 
he  is  poor,  he  gives  away  the  half  of  his  tithes  in 
charity.  His  parish  is  waste  and  wide,  yet,  if  sickness 
or  misfortune  should  befall  one  of  his  flock,  he  rides 
in  spite  of  wind,  or  rain,  or  thunder,  to  administer 
consolation.  Among  the  crowd  rides  a  rich  franklin, 
who  sits  in  the  Guildhall  on  the  dais.  He  is  profuse 
and  hospitable  as  summer.  All  day  his  table  stands 
in  the  hall  covered  with  meats  and  drinks,  and  every 
one  who  enters  is  welcome.  There  is  a  ship-man, 
whose  beard  has  been  shaken  by  many  a  tempest, 
whose  cheek  knows  the  kiss  of  the  salt  sea  spray ;  a 
merchant,  with  a  grave  look,  clean  and  neat  in  his 
attire,  and  with  plenty  of  gold  in  his  purse.  There  is 
a  doctor  of  physic,  who  has  killed  more  men  than  the 
knight,  talking  to  a  clerk  of  laws.  There  is  a  merry 
friar,  a  lover  of  good  cheer ;  and  when  seated  in  a 
tavern  among  his  companions,  singing  songs  it  would 
be  scarcely  decorous  to  repeat,  you  may  see  his  eyes 
twinkling  in  his  head  for  joy,  like  stars  on  a  frosty 
night.  Beside  him  is  a  ruby-faced  Sompnour,  whose 
breath  stinks  of  garlic  and  onions  ;  who  is  ever  roaring 
for  wine  —  strong  wine,  wine  red  as  blood  ;  and  when 
drlmk,  he  disdains  English  —  nothing"  but  Latin  will 
serve  his  turn.  In  front  of  all  is  a  miller,  who  has 
been  drinking  over-night,  and  is  now  but  indifferently 


228  Geoffrey   Chaucer. 

sober.  There  is  not  a  door  iu  the  country  that  he 
cannot  break  by  running  at  it  with  his  head.  The 
pilgrims  are  all  ready,  the  host,  gives  the  word,  and 
they  defile  through  the  arch.  The  miller  blows  his 
bagpipes  as  they  issue  from  the  town  ;  and  away  they 
ride  to  Canterbury,  through  the  boon  sunshine,  and 
between  the  white  hedges  of  the  English  May. 

Had  Chaucer  spent  his  whole  life  in  seeking,  he 
could  not  have  selected  a  better  contemporary  cir- 
cumstance for  securing  variety  of  character  than  a 
pilgrimage  to  Canterbury.  It  comprises,  as  we  see, 
all  kinds  and  conditions  of  people.  It  is  the  four- 
teenth-century-England in  little.  In  our  time,  the 
only  thing  that  could  match  it  in  this  rrspect  is 
Epsom  down  on  the  great  race-day.  But  then  Epsom 
down  is  too  unwieldy  ;  the  crowd  is  too  great,  and 
it  does  not  cohere,  save  for  the  few  seconds  when  the 
gay  jackets  are  streaming  towards  the  winning-post. 
The  Prologue  to  the  "  Canterbury  Tales,"  in  which 
we  make  the  acquaintance  of  the  pilgrims,  is  the 
ripest,  most  genial,  and  humorous  —  altogether  the 
most  masterly  thing  which  Chaucer  has  left  us.  In 
its  own  way,  and  within  its  own  limits,  it  is  the  most 
wonderful  thing  in  the  language.  The  people  we 
read  about  are  as  real  as  the  people  we  brush  c'othes 
with  in  the  street,  —  nay,  much  more  real,  for  we  not 
only  see  their  faces,  and  the  fashion  and  texture  of 
their  garments,  we  know  also  what  they  think,  how 
they  express  themselves,  and  with  what  eyes  they 


Geoffrey   Chaucer.  229 

look  out  on  the  world.  Chaucer" s  art  in  this  pro- 
logue is  simple  perfection.  He  indulges  in  no  irrele- 
vant description  ;  he  airs  no  fine  sentiments  ;  he  takes 
no  special  pains  as  to  style  or  poetic  ornament ;  but 
every  careless  touch  tells,  —  every  sly  line  reveals 
character ;  the  description  of  each  man's  horse-furni- 
ture and  array  reads  like  a  memoir.  The  nun's  pretty 
oath  bewrays  her.  We  see  the  bold,  well-favored 
countenance  of  the  Wife  of  Bath  beneath  her  hat,  as 
"  broad  as  a  buckler  or  a  targe  ;  "  and  the  horse  of 
the  clerk,  "  as  lean  as  is  a  rake,"  tells  tales  of  his 
master's  cheer.  Our  modern  dress  is  worthless  as  an 
indication  of  the  character,  or  even  of  the  social  rank, 
of  the  wearer ;  in  the  olden  time  it  was  significant  of 
personal  tastes  and  appetites,  of  profession,  and  con- 
dition of  life  generally.  See  how  Chaucer  brings  out 
a  character  by  touching  merely  on  a  few  points  of 
attire  and  personal  appearance  :  — 

"  I  saw  his  sleeves  were  purflled  at  the  hand 
Witli  fur,  and  that  the  finest  of  the  land  ; 
And  for  to  fasten  his  hood  under  his  chin 
He  had  of  gold  y'wrought  a  curious  pin. 
A  love-knot  in  the  greater  end  there  was  ; 
His  head  was  bald,  and  shone  as  any  glass, 
And  eke  his  face  as  if  it  was  anoint." 

What  more  would  you  have !  You  could  not  have 
known  the  monk  better  if  you  had  lived  all  your  life 
in  the  monastery  with  him.  The  sleeves  daintily 
purfiled  with  fur  give  one  side  of  him,  the  curious  pin 
with  the  love-knot  another,  and  the  shining  crown  and 


230  Geoffrey    Chancer. 

face  complete  the  character  and   the  picture.      The 
sun  itself  could  not  photograph  more  truly. 

On  their  way  the  pilgrims  tell  tales,  and  these  are  as 
various  as  their  relaters  ;  in  fact,  the  Prologue  is  the 
soil  out  of  which  they  all  grow.  Dramatic  propriety 
is  every  where  instinctively  preserved.  "  The  Knight's 
Tale  "  is  nohle,  splendid,  and  chivalric  as  his  own  na- 
ture ;  the  tale  told  by  the  Wife  of  Bath  is  exactly  what 
one  would  expect.  With  what  good  humor  the  rosy 
sinner  confesses  her  sins  !  how  hilarious  she  is  in  her 
repentance !  "  The  Miller's  Tale  "  is  coarse  and  full- 
flavored,  just  the  kind  of  thing  to  be  told  by  a  rough 
humorous  fellow  who  is  hardly  yet  sober.  And  here 
it  may  be  said,  that  although  there  is  a  good  deal  of 
coarseness  in  the  "  Canterbury  Tales,"  there  is  not 
the  slightest  tinge  of  pruriency.  There  is  such  a 
single-heartedness  and  innocence  in  Chaucer's  vulgar- 
est  and  broadest  stories,  such  a  keen  eye  for  humor, 
and  such  a  hearty  enjoyment  of  it,  and  at  the  same 
time  such  an  absence  of  any  delight  in  impurity  for 
impurity's  sake,  that  but  little  danger  can  arise  from 
their  perusal.  He  is  so  fond  of  fun  that  he  will 
drink  it  out  of  a  cup  that  is  only  indifferently  clean. 
He  writes  often  like  Fielding,  he  never  \vTites  as 
Smollett  sometimes  docs.  These  stories,  ranging  from 
the  noble  romance  of  Palamon  and  Arcite,  to  the 
rude  intrigues  of  Clerk  Nicholas  —  the  one  fitted  to 
draw  tears  down  the  cheeks  of  nobb  ladies  and 
gentlemen,  the  other  to  convulse  with  laughter  the 


Geoffrey    Chaucer.  231 

midriflfe  of  illiterate  clowns  —  give  one  an  idea  of  the 
astonishing  range  of  'Chaucer's  powers.  .  He  can  suit 
himself  to  every  company,  make  himself  at  home  in 
every  circumstance  of  life  ;  can  mingle  in  tournaments 
where  beauty  is  leaning  from  balconies,  and  the 
knights,  with  spear  in  rest,  wait  for  the  blast  of  the 
trumpet ;  and  he  can  with  equal  ease  sit  with  a  couple 
of  drunken  friars  in  a  tavern  laughing  over  the  con- 
fessions they  hear,  and  singing  questionable  catches 
between  whiles.  Chaucer's  range  is  wide  as  that  of 
Shakspeare  —  if  we  omit  that  side  of  Shakspeare's 
mind  which  confronts  the  other  world,  and  out  of 
which  Hamlet  sprang  —  and  his  men  and  women  are 
even  more  real,  and  more  easily  matched  in  the  living 
and  breathing  world.  For  in  Shakspeare's  characters, 
as  in  his  language,  there  is  surplusage,  superabundance  ; 
the  measure  is  heaped  and  running  over.  From  his 
sheer  wealth  he  is  often  the  most  rmdramatic  of 
writers.  He  is  so  frequently  greater  than  his  occa- 
sion, he  has  no  smill  change  to  suit  emergencies, 
and  we  have  guineas  in  place  of  groats.  Romeo  is 
more  than  a  mortal  lover,  and  Mercutio  more  than 
a  mortal  wit ;  the  kings  in  the  Shaksperian  world  are 
more  kingly  than  earthly  sovereigns ;  Rosalind's 
laughter  was  never  lieard  save  in  the  forest  of  Arden. 
His  madmen  seem  to  have  eat?n  of  some  "  strange 
root."  No  such  boon  companion  as  FalstafF  ever  heard 
chimes  at  midnight.  His  very  clowns  are  transcen- 
dental, with  scraps  of  wisdom  springing  out  of  their 


232  Geoffrey    Chaucer. 

foolisliest  speect.  Chaucer,  lacking  Shaksp'^are's  ex- 
cess and  prodigality  of  genius,  oould  not  so  gloriously 
err,  and  his  creations  have  a  harder,  drier,  more  realis- 
tic look  ;  are  more  like  the  people  we  hear  uttering 
ordinary  English  speech,  and  see  on  ordinary  country 
roads  against  an  ordinary  English  sky.  If  need  were, 
any  one  of  them  could  drive  pigs  to  market.  Chaucer's 
characters  are  individual  enough,  their  idiosyncrasies 
are  sharply  enough  defined,  but  they  are  to  some  ex- 
tent literal  and  prosaic ;  they  are  of  the  "  earth, 
earthy  ;  "  out  of  his  imagination  no  Ariel  ever  sprang, 
no  half-human,  half-brutish  Caliban  ever  crept.  He 
does  not  effloresce  in  illustrations  and  unages,  the 
flowers  do  not  hide  the  grass  ;  his  pictures  are  master- 
pieces, but  they  are  portraits,  and  the  man  is  brought 
out  by  a  multiplicity  of  short  touches  —  caustic,  satir- 
ical, and  matter  of  fact.  His  poetry  may  be  said  to 
resemble  an  English  country-road,  on  which  passen- 
gers of  different  degrees  of  rank  are  continually 
passing,  —  now  knight,  now  boor,  now  abbot :  Spen- 
ser's, for  instance,  and  all  the  more  fanciful  styles,  to 
a  tapestry  on  which  a  whole  Olympus  has  been 
wrought.  The  figures  on  the  tapestry  are  much  the 
more  noble-looking,  it  is  true,  but  then  they  are  dreams 
and  phantoms,  whereas  the  people  on  the  country- 
road  actually  exist. 

The  "  Knight's  Tale,"  —  which  is  the  first  told  on 
the  way  to  Canterbury  —  is  a  chivalrous  legend,  full  of 
hunting,   battle,   and  tournament.     Into  it,  although 


Geoffrey   Chaucer.  233 

the  scene  is  laid  in  Greece,  Chaucer  has,  with  a  fine 
scorn  of  anachronism,  poured  all  the  splendor,  color, 
pomp,  and  circumstance  of  the  fourteenth  century. 
It  is  brilliant  as  a  banner  displayed  to  the  sunlight. 
It  is  real  cloth  of  gold.  Compared  with  it,  "  Ivan- 
hoe"  is  a  spectacle  at  Astley's.  The  style  is  every 
where  more  adorned  than  is  usual,  although  even  here, 
and  in  the  richest  parts,  the  short,  homely,  caustic 
Chaucerian  line  is  largely  employed.  The  "  Man  of 
Law's  Tale,"  again  is  distinguished  by  quite  a  differ- 
ent merit.  It  relates  the  sorrows  and  patience  of  Con- 
stance, and  is  filled  with  the  beauty  of  holiness.  Con- 
stance might  have  been  sister  to  Cordelia  ;  she  is  one  of 
the  white  lilies  of  womanhood.  Her  story  is  almost  the 
tenderest  in  our  literature.  And  Chaucer's  art  comes 
out  in  this,  that  although  she  would  spread  her  hair, 
nay,  put  her  very  heart  beneath  the  feet  of  those  who 
wrong  her,  we  do  not  cease  for  one  moment  to  respect 
her.  This  is  a  feat  which  has  but  seldom  been  achieved. 
It  has  long  been  a  matter  of  reproach  to  Mr.  Thack- 
eray, for  instance,  that  the  only  faculty  with  which  he 
gifts  his  good  women  is  a  supreme  faculty  of  tears. 
To  draw  any  very  high  degree  of  female  patience 
is  one  of  the  most  difficult  of  tasks.  If  you  rep- 
resent a  woman  bearing  wrong  with  a  continuous  un- 
murmuring meekness,  presenting  to  blows,  come 
from  what  quarter  they  may,  nothing  but  a  bent 
neck,  and  eyelids  humbly  drooped,  you  are  in  nine 
cases  o  it  of  ten  painting  elaborately  the  portrait  of  a 


234  Geoffrey    Chancer. 

fool ;  and  if  you  miss  making  her  a  fool,  you  are  cer- 
tain to  make  her  a  bore.  Your  patient  woman,  in 
books  and  in  life,  does  not  draw  on  our  gratitude. 
When  her  goodness  is  not  stupidity  —  which  it  fre- 
quently is  —  it  is  insulting.  She  walks  about  an  in- 
carnate rebuke.  Her  silence  is  an  incessant  com- 
plaint. A  tea-cup  thrown  at  your  head  is  not  half  so 
alarming  as  her  meek,  much-wronged,  unretorting 
face.  You  begin  to  suspect  that  she  consoles  herself 
with  the  thought  that  there  is  another  world  where 
brutal  brothers  and  husbands  are  settled  with  for  their 
behavior  to  their  angelic  wives  and  sisters  in  this. 
Chaucer's  Constance  is  neither  fool  nor  bore,  although 
in  the  hands  of  any  body  else,  she  would  h  ive  been  one 
or  the  other,  or  both.  Like  the  holy  religion  which 
she  symbolizes,  her  sweet  face  draws  blessing  and  love 
wherever  it  goes :  it  heals  old  wounds  with  its  beau- 
ty, it  carries  peace  into  the  heart  of  discord,  it  touches 
murder  itself  into  soft  and  penitential  tears.  In  read- 
ing the  old  tender-hearted  poet,  we  feel  that  there  is 
something  in  a  woman's  sweetness  and  forgiveness 
that  the  masculine  mind  cannot  fathom  ;  and  we 
adore  the  hushed  step  and  still  countenance  of  Con- 
stance almost  as  if  an  angel  passed. 

Chaucer's  orthography  is  unquestionably  unconth 
at  first  sight ;  but  it  is  not  difficult  to  read  if  you 
keep  a  good  glossary  beside  you  for  occasional  ref- 
erence, and  are  willing  to  undergo  a  little  trouble. 
The  language  is    antique,  but   it  is   full  of  antique 


Geoffrey    Chaucer.  235 

flavor.  Wine  of  excellent  vintage  originally,  it  has 
i  nproved  through  all  the  years  it  has  been  kept.  A 
very  little  trouble  on  the  reader's  part,  in  the  reign  of 
Anne,  woidd  have  made  him  as  intelligible  as  Addi- 
son ;  a  very  little  more,  in  the  reign  of  Queen  Victoria, 
will  make  him  more  intelligible  than  Mr.  Browning. 
Yet  somehow  it  has  been  a  favorite  idea  with  many 
poets  that  he  required  modernization,  and  that  they 
Avere  the  men  to  do  it.  Dryden,  Pope,  and  Words- 
worth have  tried  their  hands  on  him.  Wordsworth 
performed  his  work  in  a  reverential  enough  spirit ;  but 
it  may  be  doubted  whether  his  efforts  have  brought 
the  old  poet  a  single  new  reader.  Dryden  and  Pope 
did  not  translate  or  modernize  Chaucer,  —  they  com- 
mitted assault  and  battery  upon  him.  They  turned  his 
exquisitely  naive  humor  into  their  own  coarseness ; 
they  put  doubles  entendre  into  his  mouth  ;  they  blurred 
his  female  faces  —  as  a  picture  is  blurred  when  the 
hand  of  a  Vandal  is  drawn  over  its  yet  wet  colors  — 
and  they  turned  his  natural  descriptions  into  the 
natural  descriptions  of  "  Windsor  Forest "  and  the 
"  Fables."  The  grand  old  writer  does  not  need 
translation  or  modernization ;  but,  perhaps,  if  it  be 
done  at  all,  it  had  better  be  done  through  the  me- 
dium of  prose.  What  is  characteristic  about  him  will 
be  better  reached  in  that  way.  For  the  benefit  of 
younger  readers,  I  subjoin  short  prose  versions  of  two 
of  the  "  Canterbury  Tales  " — a  story-book  than  which 
the  world  does  not  possess  a  better.     Listen,  then,  to 


236  Geoffrey    Chaucer, 

the  tale  the  Knight  told   as    the   pilgrims   rode   to 
Canterbury :  — 

"  There  was  once,  as  old  stories  tell,  a  certain 
Duke  Theseus,  lord  and  governor  of  Athens.  The 
same  was  a  great  warrior  and  conqueror  of  realms. 
He  defeated  the  Amazons,  and  wedded  the  queen 
of  that  country,  Hypolita.  After  his  marriage,  the 
duke,  his  wife,  and  his  sister  Emily,  with  all  tlieir 
host,  were  riding  towards  Athens,  when  they  were 
aware  that  a  company  of  ladies,  clad  in  black,  were 
kneeling  two  by  two  on  the  highway,  ^^^•in;^ing  their 
hands,  and  filling  the  air  with  lamentations.  The 
duke,  beholding  this  piteous  sight,  reined  in  his  ste^d, 
and  inquired  the  reason  of  their  grief.  Whereat  one 
of  the  ladies,  queen  to  the  slain  king  Capeneus,  told 
him  that  at  the  siege  of  Thebes,  (of  which  town  they 
were,)  Creon,  the  conqueror,  had  thrown  the  bodies 
of  their  husbands  in  a  heap,  and  would  on  no  account 
allow  them  to  be  buried,  so  that  their  limbs  were 
mangled  by  \Tiltures  and  wild  beasts.  At  the  hearing 
of  this  great  wrong,  the  duke  started  down  from  his 
horse,  took  the  ladies  one  by  one  in  his  arms  and 
comforted  them,  sent  Hypolita  and  Emily  home, 
displayed  his  great  white  banner,  and  immediately 
rode  towards  Thebes  with  his  host.  Arriving  at 
the  city,  he  attacked  it  boldly,  slew  the  tyrant  Creon 
with  his  own  hand,  tore  down  the  houses,  —  wall, 
roof,  and  rafter,  —  and  then  gave  the  bodies  to  the 
weeping  ladies    that   they    might   be    honorably    in- 


Geoffrey    Chaucer.  237 

terred.  While  searching  amongst  the  slain  Thebans, 
two  young  knights  were  found  grievously  wounded, 
and  by  the  richness  of  their  armor  they  were  known 
to  be  of  the  blood-royal.  These  young  knights, 
Palamon  and  Arcite  by  name,  the  duke  carried  tj 
Athens,  and  flung  into  perpetual  prison.  Here  they 
lived  year  by  year  in  mourning  and  woe.  It  hap- 
pened one  May  morning  that  Palamon,  who  by  the 
clemency  of  his  keeper  was  roaming  about  in  an 
upper  chamber,  looked  out  and  beheld  Emily  singing 
in  the  garden  and  gathering  flowers.  At  the  sight  of 
the  beautiful  apparition  he  started  and  cried,  '  Ha  I ' 
Arcite  rose  up,  crying,  '  Dear  cousin,  what  is  the 
matter  ?  '  when  he  too  was  stricken  to  the  heart  by 
the  shaft  of  her  beauty.  Then  the  prisoners  began  to 
dispute  as  to  which  of  them  had  the  better  right  to 
love  her.  Palamon  said  that  he  had  seen  her  first ; 
Arcite  said  that  in  love  each  man  fought  for  himself; 
and  so  they  disputed  day  by  day.  Now  it  so  hap- 
pened that  at  this  time  the  Duke  Perotheus  came  to 
visit  his  old  playfellow  and  friend  Theseus,  and  at  his 
intercession  Arcite  was  liberated  on  the  condition 
that  on  pain  of  death  he  should  never  again  be  found 
in  the  Athenian  dominions.  Then  the  two  knights 
grieved  in  th.ir  hearts.  'What  matters  liberty  ?'  said 
Arcite  — '  I  am  a  banished  man  I  Palamon  in  his 
dungeon  is  happier  than  I.  He  can  see  Emily,  and 
be  gladdened  by  her  beauty  ! '  '  Woe  is  me  ! '  said 
Palamoa,  '  here  must  I  remain  in  durance.     Arcite  is 


238  Geoffrey    Chaucer. 

abroad ;  he  may  make  sharp  war  on  the  Athenian 
border,  and  win  Emily  by  the  sword.'  When  Arcite 
returned  to  his  native  city,  he  became  so  thin  and 
pale  with  sorrow  that  his  friends  scarcely  knew  him. 
One  night  the  god  Mercury  appeared  to  him  in  a 
dream,  and  told  him  to  return  to  Athens,  for  in  that 
city  destiny  had  shaped  an  end  of  his  woes.  He 
arose  next  morning  and  went.  He  entered  as  a 
menial  into  the  service  of  the  Duke  Theseus,  and  in  a 
short  time  was  promoted  to  be  page  of  the  chambcsi: 
to  Emily  the  bright.  Meanwhile,  by  the  help  of  a 
friend,  Palamon,  who  had  drugged  his  jailer  with 
spiced  wine,  made  his  escape,  and,  as  morning  began 
to  dawn,  he  hid  himself  in  a  grove.  That  very 
morning  Arcite  had  ridden  from  Athens  to  gather 
some  green  branches  to  do  honor  to  the  month  of 
May,  and  entered  the  grove  in  which  Palamon  was 
concealed.  When  he  had  gathered  his  gr  en  branches, 
he  sat  down,  and,  after  the  manner  of  lovers,  (who 
"nave  no  constancy  of  spirits,)  he  began  to  pour  forth 
his  sorrows  to  the  empty  air.  Palamon,  knowing  his 
voice,  started  up  with  a  white  face  — '  False  traitor, 
Arcite  !  now  I  have  found  thee.  Thou  hast  deceived 
the  Duke  Theseus !  I  am  the  lover  of  Emily,  and 
thy  mortal  foe !  Had  I  a  weapon,  one  of  us  shou'd 
never  leave  this  grove  alive  ! '  'By  God,  who  sitteth 
above ! '  cried  the  fierce  Arcite,  '  were  it  not  that 
thou  art  sick  and  mad  for  love,  I  would  slay  thee 
here  with  my  own  hand !    Meats,  and  drinks,  and 


Geoffrey   Chancer.  239 

bedding  I  shall  bring  thee  to-night,  to-morrow  swords 
and  two  suits  of  armor ;  take  thou  the  better,  leave 
me  the  worse,  and  then  let  us  see  who  can  win  the 
lady.'  '  Agreed,'  said  Palamon ;  and  Arcite  rode 
away  in  great  fierce  joy  of  heart.  Next  morning,  at 
the  crowing  of  the  cock,  Arcite  placed  two  suits  of 
armor  before  him  on  his  horse,  and  rode  towards  the 
grove.  When  they  met,  the  color  of  their  faces 
changed.  Each  thought,  '  Here  comes  my  mort  .1 
enemy ;  one  of  us  must  be  dead.'  Then  friend-like, 
as  if  they  had  been  brothers,  they  assisted  each  the 
other  to  rivet  on  the  armor ;  that  done,  the  great 
bright  swords  went  to  and  fro,  and  they  were  soon 
standing  ankle-deep  in  blood.  That  same  morning 
the  Duke  Theseus,  his  wife,  and  Emily,  went  forth  to 
hunt  the  hart  with  hound  and  horn,  and,  as  destiny 
ordered  it,  the  chase  led  them  to  the  very  grove  in 
which  the  knights  were  fighting.  Theseus,  shading 
his  eyes  from  the  sunlight  with  his  hand,  saw  them, 
and,  spurring  his  horse  between  them,  cried,  '  What 
manner  of  men  are  ye,  fighting  here  without  judge  or 
officer?'  Whereupon  Palamon  said,  'I  am  that  Pala- 
mon who  has  broken  your  prison  ;  this  is  Arcite  the 
banished  man,  who,  by  returning  to  Athens,  has  for- 
feited his  head.  Do  with  us  as  you  list.  I  have  no 
more  to  say.'  'You  have  condemned  yourselves!' 
cried  the  Duke ;  '  by  mighty  Mars  the  red,  both  of 
you  shall  die ! '  Then  Emily  and  the  queen  fell  at 
his  feet,  and  with  prayers  and  tears  and  white  hands 


240  Geoffrey   Chaucer. 

lifted  up  besought  the  lives  of  the  young  knights, 
which  was  soon  granted.  Theseus  began  to  laugh 
when  he  thought  of  his  own  young  days.  '  A\Tiat  a 
mighty  god  is  Love ! '  quoth  he.  '  Here  are  Palamon 
and  Arcite  fighting  for  my  sister,  while  they  know  she 
can  only  marry  one.  Fight  they  ever  so  much,  she 
cannot  marry  both.  I  therefore  ordain  that  both  of 
you  go  away  and  return  this  day  year,  each  bringing 
with  him  a  hundred  knights,  and  let  the  victor  in 
solemn  tournament  have  Emily  for  wife.'  "Who  was 
glad  now  but  Palamon  I  who  sprang  up  for  joy  but 
Arcite  ! 

"  When  the  twelve  months  had  nearly  passed  away, 
there  was  in  Athens  a  great  noise  of  workmen  and 
hammers.  The  Duke  was  busy  with  preparations. 
He  built  a  large  amphitheatre,  seated  round  and 
round,  to  hold  thousands  of  people.  He  erected  also 
three  temples  —  one  for  Diana,  one  for  Mars,  one  for 
Venus ;  how  rich  these  were,  how  full  of  paintings 
and  images,  the  tongue  cannot  tell !  Never  was  such 
pr3paration  made  in  th?  world.  At  last  the  day  ar- 
rivjd  in  which  the  knights  were  to  make  their  entrance 
into  the  city.  A  noise  of  trumpets  was  heard,  and 
through  the  city  rode  Palamon  and  h's  train.  With 
him  came  Lycurgus,  the  King  of  Thrace.  He  stood 
in  a  great  car  of  gold,  drawn  by  four  white  bulls,  and 
his  face  was  like  a  griffin  when  he  looked  about. 
Twenty  or  more  hounds  used  for  hunting  the  lion 
and  the  bear  ran  about  the  wheels  of  his  car ;  at  his 


Geoffrey   Chaucer.  241 

back  rode  a  hundred  lords,  stern  and  stout.  Another 
burst  of  trumpets,  and  Arcite  entered  with  his  troop. 
By  his  side  rode  Emetrius,  the  king  of  India,  on  a 
bay  steed  covered  with  cloth  of  gold.  His  hair  was 
yellow  and  glittered  like  the  sun  ;  when  he  looked  upon 
the  people,  they  thought  his  face  was  like  the  face  of 
a  lion ;  his  voice  was  like  the  thunder  of  a  trumpet. 
He  bore  a  white  eagle  on  his  wrist,  and  tame  lions 
and  leopards  ran  among  the  horses  of  his  train.  They 
came  to  the  city  on  a  Sunday  morning,  and  the  jousts 
were  to  begin  on  Monday.  What  pricking  of  squires 
backwards  and  forwards,  what  clanking  of  hammers, 
what  baying  of  hounds,  that  day !  At  last  it  was 
noon  of  Monday.  Theseus  declared  from  his  throne 
that  no  blood  was  to  be  shed  —  that  they  should  take 
prisoners  only,  and  that  he  who  was  once  taken 
prisoner  should  on  no  account  again  mingle  in  the 
fray.  Then  the  Duke,  the  Queen,  Emily,  and  the 
rest,  rode  to  the  lists  with  trumpets  and  melody. 
They  had  no  sooner  taken  their  places  than  through 
the  gate  of  Mars  rode  Arcite  and  his  hundred,  dis- 
playing a  red  banner.  At  the  self-same  moment 
Palamon  and  his  company  entered  by  the  gate  of 
Venus,  with  a  banner  white  as  milk.  They  were 
then  arranged  in  two  ranks,  their  names  were  called 
over,  the  gates  were  shut,  the  herald  gave  his  cry, 
loud  and  clear  rang  the  trumpet,  and  crash  went  the 
spears  as  if  made  of  gla^^s  when  the  knights  met  in 
battle  shock.  There  might  you  see  a  knight  un- 
16 


242  Geoffrey   Chaucer. 

horsed,  a  second  crushing  his  way  through  the  press, 
armed  with  a  mighty  mace,  a  third  hurt  and  taken 
prisoner.  Many  a  time  that  day  in  the  swaying  battle 
did  the  two  Thebans  meet,  and  thrice  were  they  un- 
horsed. At  last,  near  the  setting  of  the  sun,  when 
Palamon  was  fighting  with  Arcite,  he  was  wounded 
by  Emetrius,  and  the  battle  thickened  at  the  place. 
Emetrius  is  thrown  out  of  his  saddle  a  spear's  length. 
Lycurgus  is  overthrown,  and  rolls  on  the  giound, 
horse  and  man;  and  Palamon  is  dragged  by  main 
force  to  the  stake.  Then  Theseus  rose  up  where  he 
sat,  and  cried,  '  Ho !  no  more ;  Arcite  of  Thebes 
hath  won  Emily ! '  at  which  the  people  shouted  so 
loudly,  that  it  almost  seemed  the  mighty  lists  would 
fall.  Arcite  now  put  up  his  hemlet,  and,  curvetting 
his  horse  through  the  open  space,  smiled  to  Emily, 
when  a  fire  from  Pluto  started  out  of  the  earth  ; 
the  horse  shied,  and  his  rider  was  thrown  on  his 
head  on  the  ground.  When  he  was  lifted,  his  breast 
was  broken,  and  his  face  was  as  black  as  coal. 
Then  there  was  grief  in  Athens  —  every  one  wept. 
Soon  after,  Arcite,  feeling  the  cold  death  creeping 
up  from  his  feet  and  darkening  his  face  and  eyes, 
called  Palamon  and  Emily  to  his  bed-side,  when  he 
joined  their  hands,  and  died.  The  dead  body  was 
laid  on  a  pile,  dressed  in  splendid  war-gear,  his 
naked  sword  was  placed  by  his  side,  the  pile  was 
heaped  with  gums,  frankincense,  and  odors ;  a  torch 
was  applied,  and  when  the  flames  rose  up,  and  the 


Geoffrey   Chaucer.  243 

smoky  fragrance  rolled  to  heaven,  the  Greeks  galloped 
round  three  times,  with  a  great  shouting  and  clashing 
of  shields." 

The  Man  of  Law's  tale  runs  in  this  wise :  — 
"  There  dwelt  in  Syria  once  a  company  of  merchants 
who  scented  every  land  with  the'r  spices.  They  dealt 
in  jewels,  and  cloth  of  gold,  and  sheeny  satins.  It  so 
happened,  that  while  some  of  them  were  dwelling  in 
Rome  for  traffic,  the  people  talked  of  nothing  save 
the  wonderful  heauty  of  Constance,  the  daughter  of 
the  emperor.  She  was  so  fair,  that  every  one  who 
looked  upon  her  face  feU  in  love  with  her.  In  a  short 
time  the  ships  of  the  merchants,  laden  with  rich  wares, 
were  furrowing  the  green  sea  going  home.  When 
they  came  to  their  native  city,  they  could  talk  of 
nothing  but  the  marvellous  beauty  of  Constance. 
Their  words  being  reported  to  the  Sultan,  he  deter- 
mined that  none  other  should  be  his  wife ;  and  for 
this  purpose  he  abandoned  the  religion  of  the  false 
Prophet,  and  was  baptized  in  the  Christian  faith. 
Ambassadors  passed  between  the  courts,  and  the  day 
came  at  length  when  Constance  was  to  leave  Rome  for 
her  husband's  palace  in  Syria.  What  kisses  and  tears 
and  lingering  embraces  !  What  blessings  on  the  little 
golden  head  which  was  so  soon  to  lie  in  the  bosom 
of  a  stranger  !  What  state  and  solemnity  in  the  pro- 
cession which  wound  down  from  the  shore  to  the 
ship!  At  last  it  was  SjTia.  Crowds  of  people  were 
standing  on  the  beach.     The  mother  of  the  Sultan 


244  Geoffrey   Chaucer^. 

was  there ;  and  when  Constance  stepped  ashore,  she 
took  her  in  her  arms  and  kissed  her  as  if  she  had 
been  har  own  child.  Soon  after,  with  trumpets  and 
melody,  and  the  trampling  of  innumerable  horses,  the 
Sultan  came.  Every  thing  was  joy  and  happiness. 
Bu-t  the  smiling  demoness,  his  mother,  could  not  for- 
give him  for  changing  his  faith,  and  she  resolved  to 
slay  him  that  very  night,  and  seize  the  government  of 
the  kingdom.  He  and  all  his  lords  were  stabbed  in 
the  rich  hall  while  they  were  sitting  at  thjir  wine. 
Constance  alone  escaped.  She  was  then  put  into  a 
ship  alone,  with  food  and  clothes,  and  told  that  she 
might  find  her  way  back  to  Italy.  She  sailed  away, 
an  J  was  never  seen  by  that  people.  For  five  years 
she  wandered  to  and  fro  upon  tha  sea.  Do  yoi  ask 
who  preserved  her  ?  The  same  God  who  fed  Elijah 
with  ravens,  and  saved  Daniel  in  the  horrible  den. 
At  last  she  floated  into  the  English  seas,  and  was 
thrown  by  the  waves  on  the  Northumberland  shore, 
near  which  stood  a  great  castle.  The  constable  of 
the  castle  came  down  in  the  morning  to  see  the  woful 
woman.  She  spoke  a  kind  of  con-upt  Latin,  and 
could  neither  tell  her  name  nor  the  name  of  the 
country  of  which  she  was  a  native.  She  said  she  was 
so  bewiUered  in  the  sea  that  she  remembered  nothing. 
The  man  could  not  help  loving  her,  and  so  took  her 
home  to  live  with  himself  and  his  wife.  Now,  through 
the  example  and  teaching  of  Constance,  Dame  Hermi- 
gild  was  converted  tJ  Christianity.     It  happened  also 


Geoffrey   Chaucer.  245 

that  three  aged  Christian  Britons  were  living  near  that 
place  in  great  fear  of  their  pagan  neighbors,  and  one 
of  these  men  was  blind.  One  day,  as  the  constable, 
his  wife,  and  Constance  were  walking  along  the  sea- 
shore, they  '  were  met  by  the  blind  man,  who  called 
out,  "  In  the  name  of  Christ,  give  me  my  sight,  Dame 
Hermigild  !•'  At  this,  on  account  of  her  husband, 
she  was  sore  afraid,  but,  encouraged  by  Constance, 
she  wrought  a  great  miracle,  and  gave  the  blind  man 
his  sight.  But  Satan,  the  enemy  of  all,  wanted  to 
destroy  Constance,  and  he  employed  a  young  knight 
for  that  purpose.  This  knight  had  loved  her  with  a 
foul  affection,  to  which  she  could  give  no  return. 
At  last,  wild  for  revenge,  he  crept  at  night  into  Her- 
migild's  chamber,  slew  hor,  and  laid  tho  bloody  knife 
on  the  innocent  pillow  of  Constance.  The  next 
morning  there  was  woe  and  dolor  in  the  house.  She 
was  brought  before  Alia,  the  king,  charged  with  the 
murder.  The  people  could  not  believe  that  she  had 
done  this  thing  —  they  knew  she  loved  Hermigild  so. 
Constance  feU  down  on  her  knees  and  prayed  to  God 
for  succor.  Have  you  ever  been  in  a  crowd  in 
which  a  man  is  being  led  to  death,  and,  seeing  a 
wild,  pale  face,  know  by  that  sign  that  you  are  look- 
ing upon  the  doomed  creature  ?  —  so  wild,  so  pale 
looked  Constance  when  she  stood  before  the  king 
and  people.  The  tears  ran  down  Alla's  face.  '  Go 
fetch  a  book,'  cried  he ;  '  and  if  this  knight  swears 
that  the  woman  is  guilty,  she  shall  surely  die.'     The 


246  Geoffrey    Chaucer. 

book  was  brought,  the  knight  took  the  oath,  and  that 
moment  an  unseen  hand  smote  him  on  the  neck,  so 
that  he  fell  do\vn  on  the  floor,  his  eyes  bursting  out 
of  his  head.  Then  a  celestial  voice  was  heard  in  the 
midst,  crying,  '  Thou  hast  slandered  a  daughter  of 
Holy  Church  in  high  presence,  and  yet  I  hold  my 
peace.'  A  great  awe  fell  on  all  who  heard,  and  the 
king  and  multitudes  of  his  people  were  converted. 
Shortly  after  this.  Alia  wedded  Constance  with  great 
richness  and  solemnity.  At  length  he  was  c  illed  to 
defend  his  border  against  the  predatory  Scots,  and  in 
his  absence  a  man-child  was  born.  A  messenger  was 
83nt  with  the  blissful  tidings  to  the  king's  camp  ;  but, 
on  his  way,  the  messenger  turned  aside  to  the  dwell- 
ing of  Donegild,  the  king's  mother,  and  said,  '  Be 
blithe,  madam ;  the  queen  has  given  birth  to  a  son, 
and  joy  is  in  the  land.  Here  is  the  letter  I  bear  to 
the  king.'  The  wicked  Doneg  Id  said,  '  You  must 
be  already  tired  —  here  are  refreshments.'  And  while 
the  simple  man  drank  ale  and  wine,  she  forged  a  letter, 
saying  that  the  queen  had  been  delivered  of  a  creature 
so  fiendish  and  honible,  that  no  one  in  the  castle  could 
bear  to  look  upon  it.  This  letter  the  messenger  gave 
to  the  king,  and  who  can  tell  his  grief !  But  he  wrote 
in  reply,  '  Welcome  be  the  child  that  Christ  sends ! 
Welcome,  O  Lord,  be  Thy  pleasure !  Be  careful  of 
my  wife  and  child  till  my  i*eturn.'  The  messenger 
on  his  return  slept  at  Donegild's  court,  with  the  letter 
under  his  girdle.     It  was  stolen  while  in  his  drunken 


Geoffrey    Chaucer.  247 

sleep,  and  another  put  in  its  place,  charging  the  con- 
stable not  to  let  Constance  remain  three  days  in  the 
kingdom,  but  to  send  her  and  her  child  away  in  the 
same  ship  in  which  she  had  come.  The  constable 
could  not  help  himself.  Thousands  are  gathered  on 
the  shore.  With  a  face  wild  and  pale  as  when  she 
came  from  the  sea,  and  bearing  her  crying  infant  in 
her  arms,  she  comes  through  the  crowd,  which  shrinks 
back,  leaving  a  lane  for  her  sorrow.  She  takes  her 
scat  in  the  little  boat ;  and  Avhile  the  cruel  people 
gaze  hour  by  hour  from  the  shore,  she  passes  into  the 
sunset,  and  away  out  into  the  night  under  the  stars. 
When  Alia  returned  from  the  war,  and  found  how  he 
had  been  deceived,  he  slew  his  mother  in  the  bitter- 
ness of  his  heart. 

News  had  come  to  Rome  of  the  cruelty  of  the  Sul- 
tan's mother  to  Constance,  and  an  army  was  sent  to 
waste  her  country.  After  the  land  had  been  burned 
and  desolated,  the  commander  was  crossing  the  seas 
in  triumph,  when  he  met  the  ship  sailing  in  which  sat 
Constance  and  her  little  boy.  They  were  both 
brought  to  Rome,  and  although  the  commander's  wife 
and  Constance  were  cousins,  the  one  did  not  know 
the  other.  By  this  time,  remorse  for  the  slaying  of 
his  mother  had  seized  AUa's  mind,  and  he  could  find 
no  rest.  He  resolved  to  make  a  pilgrimage  to  Rome 
in  search  of  peac3.  He  crossed  the  Alps  with  his 
train,  and  entered  the  city  with  great  glory  and  mag- 
nificence.    One   day  he  feasted  at  the  commander's 


248  Geoffrey   Chaucer. 

house,  at  which  Constance  dwelt ;  and  at  her  request 
her  little  son  was  admitted,  and  during  the  progress 
of  the  feast  the  child  went  and  stood  looking  in  the 
king's  face.  '  What  fair  child  is  that  standing  yon- 
der?' said  the  king.  'By  St.  John,  I  know  not!' 
quoth  the  commander  ;  '  he  has  a  mother,  but  no 
father,  that  I  know  of.'  And  then  he  told  the  king  — 
who  seemed  all  the  while  like  a  man  stunned  —  how 
he  had  found  the  mother  and  child  floating  about  on 
the  sea.  The  king  rose  from  the  table  and  sent  for 
Cgnstance,  and  when  he  saw  her  and  thought  on  all 
her  wrongs,  he  could  not  refrain  from  tears.  '  This  is 
your  little  son,  Maurice,'  she  said,  as  she  led  him  in 
by  the  hand.  Next  day  she  met  the  emperor  her 
father  in  the  street,  and  falling  down  on  her  knees 
before  him,  said,  '  Father,  has  the  remembrance  of 
your  young  child  Constance  gone  out  of  your  mind  ? 
I  am  that  Constance,  whom  you  sent  to  Syria,  and 
who  was  thought  to  be  lost  in  the  sea.'  That  day 
there  was  great  joy  in  Rome  ;  and  soon  afterwards. 
Alia,  with  his  wife  and  child,  returned  to  England, 
where  they  lived  in  great  prosperity  till  he  died." 


BOOKS  AND   GARDENS. 

MOST  men  "seek  solitude  from  wounded  vanity, 
from  disappointed  ambition,  from  a  miscarriage 
in  the  passions ;  but  some  others  from  native  instinct, 
as  a  duckling  seeks  water.  I  have  taken  to  my  soli- 
tude, such  as  it  is,  from  an  indolent  turn  of  mind  ; 
and  this  solitude  I  sweeten  by  an  imaginative  sym- 
pathy which  recreates  the  past  for  me  —  the  past  of 
the  world,  as  well  as  the  past  which  belongs  to  me  as 
an  individual  —  and  which  makes  me  independent  of 
the  passing  moment.  I  see  every  one  struggling  after 
the  unattainable,  but  I  struggle  not,  and  so  spare  my- 
self the  pangs  of  disappointment  and  disgust.  I  have 
no  ventures  at  sea,  and,  consequently,  do  not  fear  the 
arrival  of  evil  tidings.  I  have  no  desire  to  act  any 
prominent  part  in  the  world,  but  I  am  devoured  by 
an  unappeasable  curiosity  as  to  the  men  who  do  act. 
I  am  not  an  actor,  I  am  a  spectator  only.  My  sole 
occupation  is  sight-seeing.  In  a  certain  imperial  idle- 
ness, I  amuse  myself  with  the  world.  Ambition ! 
What  do  I  care  for  ambition  ?  The  oyster  with  much 
pain    produces    its    pearl.     I  take  the   pearl.     Why 


250  Books  and  Gardens. 

should  I  produce  one  after  this  miserable,  painful 
fashion  ?  It  would  be  but  a  flawed  one  at  best. 
These  pearls  I  can  pick  up  by  the  dozen.  The  pro- 
duction of  them  is  going  on  all  around  me,  and  there 
will  be  a  nice  crop  for  the  solitary  man  of  the  next 
century.  Look  at  a  certain  silent  emperor,  for  in- 
stance ;  a  hundred  years  hence  his  pearl  will  be 
handed  about  from  hand  to  hand ;  will  be  curiously 
scrutinized  and  valued  ;  will  be  set  in  its  place  in  the 
world's  cabinet.  I  conf3ss  I  should  like  to  see  the 
completion  of  that  filmy  orb.  Will  it  be  pure  in 
color?  WUl  its  purity  be  marred  by  an  ominous 
bloody  streak  ?  Of  this  I  am  certain,  that  in  the 
cabinet  in  which  the  world  keeps  these  peculiar  treas- 
ures, no  one  wiU  be  looked  at  more  frequently,  or 
will  provoke  a  greater  variety  of  opinions  as  to  its 
intrinsic  worth.  Why  should  I  be  ambitious  ?  Shall 
I  write  verses  ?  I  am  not  likely  to  surpass  Mr.  Tenny- 
son or  Mr.  Browning  in  that  walk.  Shall  I  be  a 
musician  ?  The  blackbird  singing  this  moment  some- 
where in  my  garden-shrubbery  puts  me  to  instant 
shame.  Shall  I  paint  ?  The  intensest  scarlet  on  an 
artist's  palette  is  but  ochre  to  that  I  saw  this  morning 
at  sunrise.  No,  no ;  let  me  enjoy  Mr.  Tennyson's 
verse,  and  the  blackbird's  song,  and  the  colors  of  sun- 
rise, but  do  not  let  me  emul.ite  them.  I  am  happier 
as  it  is.  I  do  not  need  to  make  history  —  there  are 
plenty  of  people  willing  to  save  me  trouble  on  that 
score.     The  cook  makes  the  dinner,  the  guest  eats  it, 


Books  and  Gardens.  251 

and  the  last,  not  without   reason,  is   considered  the 
happier  man. 

In  my  garden  I  spend  mj'  days ;  in  my  library  I 
spend  my  nights.  My  interests  are  divided  between 
my  geraniums  and  my  books.  With  the  flower  I  am 
in  the  present ;  with  the  book  I  am  in  the  past.  I  go 
into  my  library,  and  all  history  unrolls  before  me. 
I  breathe  the  morning  air  of  the  world  while  the 
scent  of  Eden's  roses  yet  lingered  in  it,  while  it 
vibrated  only  to  the  world's  first  brood  of  night- 
ingales, and  to  the  laugh  of  Eve.  I  see  the  p}Ta- 
mids  building ;  I  hear  the  shoutings  of  the  armies 
of  Alexander  ;  I  feel  the  ground  shake  beneath  the 
march  of  Cam'byses.  I  sit  as  in  a  theatre,  —  the 
stage  is  time,  the  play  is  the  play  of  the  world. 
What  a  spectacle  it  is !  What  kingly  pomp,  what 
processions  file  past,  what  cities  burn  to  heaven,  what 
crowds  of  captives  are  drag^jed  at  the  chariot-wheels 
of  conquerors !  I  hear  or  cry  "  Bravo "  when  the 
great  actors  come  on  shaking  the  stage.  I  am  a 
Roman  emperor  when  I  look  at  a  Roman  coin.  I 
lift  Homer,  and  I  shout  with  Achilles  in  the  trenches. 
The  silence  of  the  unpeoplad  Syrian  plains,  the  out- 
comings  and  in-goings  of  the  patriarchs,  Abraham 
and  Ishmael,  Isaac  in  the  fields  at  even-tid:>,  Rebekah 
at  the  well,  Jacob's  guile,  Esau's  face  reddened  by 
desert  sun-heat,  Joseph's  spbndid  funeral  procession 
—  all  these  things  I  find  within  the  boards  of  my  Old 
Testament.     What  a  silence  in  those  old  books  as  of 


252  Books  and  Gardens. 

a  half-peopled  world  —  what  bleating  of  flocks  —  what 
green  pastoral  rest — what  indubitable  human  exist- 
ence !  Across  brawling  centuries  of  blood  and  war,  I 
hear  the  bleating  of  Abraham's  flocks,  the  tinkling  of 
the  bells  of  Rebekah's  camels.  O  men  and  women, 
so  far  separated  yet  so  near,  so  strange  yet  so  well- 
known,  by  what  miraculous  power  do  I  know  ye  all ! 
Books  are  the  true  Elysian  fields  where  the  spirits  of 
the  dead  converse,  and  into  these  fields  a  mortal  may 
venture  unappalled.  What  king's  court  can  boast 
such  company  ?  What  school  of  philosophy  such 
wisdom  ?  The  wit  of  the  ancient  world  is  glancing 
and  flashing  there.  There  is  Pan's  pipe,  there  are 
the  songs  of  Apollo.  Seated  in  my  library  at  night, 
and  looking  on  the  silent  faces  of  my  books,  I  am 
occasionally  visited  by  a  strange  sense  of  the  super- 
natural. They  are  not  collections  of  printed  pages, 
they  are  ghosts.  I  take  one  down  and  it  speaks  with 
me  in  a  tongue  not  now  heard  on  earth,  and  of  men 
and  things  of  which  it  alone  possesses  knowledge.  I 
call  myself  a  solitary,  but  sometimes  I  think  I  mis- 
apply the  term.  No  man  sees  more  company  than  I 
do.  I  travel  with  mightisr  cohorts  around  me  than 
ever  did  Timour  or  Genghis  Khan  on  their  fiery 
marches.  I  am  a  sovereign  in  my  library,  but  it  is 
the  dead,  not  the  living  that  attend  my  levees. 

The  house  I  dwell  in  stands  apart  from  the  little 
town,  and  relates  itself  to  the  houses  as  I  do  to  the 
inhabitants.     It  sees  every  thing,  but  is  itself  unseen, 


Books  and  Gardens.  253 

or,  at  all  events,  unregarded.  My  study- window  looks 
down  upon  Dreamthorp  like  a  meditative  eye.  With- 
out meaning  it,  I  feel  I  am  a  spy  on  the  ongoings  of 
the  quist  placa.  Around  my  house  there'  is  an  old- 
fashioned  rambling  garden,  with  close-shaven  grassy 
plots,  and  fantastically-clipped  yews,  which  have 
gathered  their  d  irkness  from  a  hundred  summers  and 
winters  ;  and  sun-dials,  in  which  the  sun  is  constantly 
telling  his  age ;  and  statues,  green  with  neglect  and 
the  stains  of  the  weather.  The  garden  I  love  more 
than  any  place  on  earth  ;  it  is  a  better  study  than 
the  room  inside  the  house  which  is  dignified  by 
that  name.  I  like  to  pace  its  gravelbd  walks,  to 
sit  in  the  moss-house,  which  is  warm  and  cosey  as 
a  bird's  nest,  and  wherein  twilight  dwells  at  noon- 
day;  to  enjoy  the  feast  of  color  spread  for  me  in 
the  curiously- shaped  floral  spaces.  My  garden,  with 
its  silence  and  the  pulses  of  fragrance  that  come  and 
go  on  the  airy  undulations,  affects  me  like  sweet 
music.  Care  stops  at  the  gates,  and  gizes  at  me 
wistfully  through  the  bars.  Among  my  flowers  and 
trees  nature  takes  me  into  her  own  hands,  and  I 
breathe  freely  as  the  first  man.  It  is  curious,  pathetic 
almost,  I  sometimes  think,  how  deeply  seated  in  the 
human  heart  is  th?  liking  for  gardens  and  gardening. 
The  sickly  seamstress  in  the  narrow  ciiy  lane  tends 
her  box  of  sicklier  mi^^noncttc.  The  retired  merchant 
is  as  fond  of  tulips  as  ever  was  Dutchm  ,n  during  the 
famous  mania.     The  author  finds  a  garden  the  best 


254  Books  and  Gardens. 

place  to  think  out  his  thoui^ht.  In  the  disabled 
statesmm  every  restless  throb  of  regret  or  ambition 
is  stilled  when  he  looks  upon  his  blossomed  apple- 
trees.  Is  the  fancy  too  far  brought,  tWat  this  love  for 
gardens  is  a  reminiscence  haunting  the  race  of  that 
remote  time  in  the  world's  dawn  when  but  two  per- 
sons existed  —  a  gardener  named  Adam,  and  a  gar- 
deners wife  called  Eve  ? 

When  I  walk  out  of  my  house  into  my  garden  I 
walk  out  of  my  habitual  self,  my  every-day  thoughts, 
my  customariness  of  joy  or  sorrow  by  which  I  rec- 
ognize and  assure  myself  of  my  own  identity.  Tliese 
I  leave  behind  me  for  a  time  as  the  bather  leaves  his 
garments  on  th^  beach.  This  piece  of  garden-ground, 
in  extent  barely  a  square  acre,  is  a  kingdom  with  its 
own  interests,  annals,  and  incidents.  Something  is 
always  happening  in  it.  To-day  is  always  different 
from  yesterday.  This  spring  a  chaffinch  built  a  nest 
in  one  of  my  yew  trees.  The  particular  yew  whi'-h 
the  bird  did  me  the  honor  to  select  had  been  clipped 
long  ago  into  a  similit  ide  of  Adam,  and,  in  fact,  went 
by  his  name.  The  resemblance  to  a  human  figure 
was,  of  course,  remote,  but  the  intention  was  evident. 
In  the  black  shock  head  of  our  first  parent  did  the 
birds  establish  their  habitation.  A  prettier,  rounder, 
more  comfortable  nest  I  never  saw,  and  many  a  wild 
swing  it  got  when  Adam  bent  his  back,  and  bobbed 
and  shook  his  head  when  the  bitter  east  wind  was 
blowing.     The   nest   interested  me,  and   I  visited  it 


Books  and  Gardens.  255 

every  day  from  the  time  that  the  first  stained  turquoise 
sphere  was  laid  in  the  warm  lining  of  moss  and  horse- 
hair, tni,  when  I  chirped,  four  red  hungry  throats, 
eager  for  worm  or  slug,  opened  out  of  a  confused 
mass  of  feathery  down.  What  a  hungry  brood  it 
was,  to  be  sure,  and  how  often  father  and  mother 
were  put  to  it  to  provide  them  sustenance  I  I  went 
but  the  other  day  to  have  a  peep,  and,  behold,  brood 
and  parent-birds  were  gone,  the  nest  was  empty, 
Adam's  visitors  had  departed.  In  the  corners  of  my 
bed-room  window  I  have  a  couple  of  swallows'  nests, 
and  nothing  can  be  pleasanter  in  these  summer 
mornings  than  to  lie  in  a  kind  of  half-dream,  con- 
scious all  the  time  of  the  chatter ings  and  endearments 
of  the  man-loving  creatures.  They  are  beautifully  rest- 
less, and  are  continually  darting  around  their  nests 
in  the  window-corners.  All  at  once  there  is  a  great 
twittering  and  noise  ;  something  of  moment  has  been 
witnessed,  something  of  importance  has  occurred  in 
swallow-world,  perhaps  a  fly  of  unusual  size  or  savor 
has  been  bolted.  Clinging  with  their  feet,  and  with 
heads  turned  charmingly  aside,  they  chatter  away  with 
voluble  sweetness,  then  with  a  gleam  of  silver  they 
are  gone,  and  in  a  trice  one  is  poising  itself  in  the 
wind  above  my  tree-tops,  while  the  other  dips  her 
wing  as  she  darts  after  a  fly  through  the  arches  of  the 
bridge  which  lets  the  slow  stream  down  to  the  sea. 
I  go  to  the  southern  wall,  against  which  I  have 
trained  my  fruit-tre-s,  and   find   it  a  sheet  of  white 


256  Books  and  Gardens. 

and  vermeil  blossom,  and  as  I  know  it  by  heart,  I 
can  notice  what  changes  take  place  on  it  day  by  day, 
what  later  clumps  of  buds  have  burst  into  color  and 
odor.  What  beauty  in  that  blooming  wall  —  the 
wedding-presents  of  a  princess  ranged  for  admiration 
would  not  please  me  half  so  much  ;  what  delicate 
coloring,  what  fragrance  the  thievish  winds  steal 
from  it  without  making  it  one  odor  th?  poorer,  with 
what  a  complacent  hum  the  bes  goes  past.  My 
chaffinch's  nest,  my  swallows  —  twittering  but  a  few 
months  ago  around  the  kraal  of  the  Hottentot,  or 
chasing  flies  around  the  six  solitary  pillars  of  Baalbec 
—  with  their  nests,  in  the  corners  of  my  bed-room  win- 
dows, my  long-armed  fruit-trees  flowering  against  my 
sunny  wall  are  not  mighty  pleasures,  but  then  they 
are  my  own,  and  I  have  not  to  go  in  search  of  them. 
And  so,  like  a  wise  man,  I  am  content  with  what  I 
have,  and  make  it  richer  by  my  fancy,  which  is  as 
cheap  as  sunlight,  and  gilds  objects  quite  as  prettily. 
It  is  the  coins  in  my  ovn  pocket,  not  the  coins  in  the 
pockets  of  my  neighbor  that  arc  of  use  to  me.  Dis- 
content has  never  a  doit  in  her  purse,  and  envy  is 
the  most  poverty-stricken  of  the  passions. 

His  own  children,  and  the  children  he  happens  to 
meet  on  the  co  mtry-road,  a  man  regards  with  quite 
different  eyes.  The  strange,  sunburnt  brats  returning 
from  a  primrose-himt  and  laden  with  floral  spoils, 
may  be  as  healthy-looking,  as  pretty,  as  well-behaved, 
as  sweet-tempered,    as  neatly-dressed  as    those    that 


Books  and  Gardens.  257 

bear  his  name,  —  may  be  in  every  respect  as  worthy  of 
love  and  admiration,  but  then  they  have  the  misfor- 
tune not  to  belong  to  him.  That  little  fact  makes  a 
great  difference.  He  knows  nothing  about  them,  — 
his  acquaintance  with  them  is  born  and  dead  in  a  mo- 
ment, I  like  my  garden  better  than  any  other  gar- 
den for  the  same  reason.  It  is  my  own.  And  owner- 
ship in  such  a  matter  implies  a  great  deal.  When  I 
first  settled  here,  the  ground  around  the  house  was 
sour  moorland.  I  made  the  walk,  planted  the  trees, 
built  the  moss-house,  erected  the  sun-dial,  brought 
home  the  rhododendrons  and  fed  them  with  the 
mould  which  they  love  so  well.  I  am  the  creator  of 
every  blossom,  of  every  odor  that  comes  and  goes  in 
the  wind.  The  rustle  of  my  trees  is  to  my  ear  what 
his  child's  voice  is  to  my  friends  the  village  doctor 
or  the  village  clergyman.  I  know  the  genealogy  of 
every  tree  and  plant  in  my  garden.  I  watch  their 
growth  as  a  father  watches  the  growth  of  his  children. 
It  is  curious  enough,  as  showing  from  what  sources 
objects  derive  their  importance,  that  if  you  have  once 
planted  a  tree  for  other  than  mere  commercial  pur- 
poses, —  and  in  that  case  it  is  usually  done  by  your 
orders  and  by  the  hands  of  hirelings,  —  you  have 
always  in  it  a  quite  peculiar  interest.  You  care 
more  for  it  than  you  care  for  all  the  forests  of  Nor- 
way or  America.  You  have  planted  it,  and  that  is 
sufficient  to  make  it  peculiar  amongst  the  trees  of 
the  world.  This  personal  interest  I  take  in  every 
17 


258  Books  and  Gardens. 

inmate  of  my  garden,  and  this  interest  I  have  in- 
creased by  sedulous  watching.  But  really  trees  and 
plants  res3mble  human  boings  in  many  ways.  You 
shake  a  packet  of  seed  into  your  forcing  frame,  and 
while  some  grow,  others  pine  and  die,  or  struggle  on 
under  hereditary  defect,  showing  indifferent  blossoms 
late  in  the  season,  and  succumb  at  length.  So  far  as 
one  could  discover,  the  seeds  were  originally  alik^,  — 
they  received  the  same  care,  they  were  fed  by  the 
same  moisture  and  sunlight,  but  of  no  two  of  them  are 
the  issues  the  same.  Do  I  not  see  something  of  this 
kind  in  the  world  of  men,  and  can  I  not  please  my- 
self with  quaint  analogies  ?  These  plants  and  trees 
have  their  seasons  of  illness,  and  their  sudden  deaths. 
Your  best  rose-tree,  whose  fame  has  spread  for  twenty 
miles,  is  smitten  by  some  fell  disease ;  its  leaves  take 
an  unhealthy  hue,  and  in  a  day  or  so  it  is  sapless  — 
dead.  A  tree  of  mine,  the  first  last  spring  to  put  out 
its  leaves,  and  which  wore  them  till  November,  made 
this  spring  no  green  response  to  the  call  of  the  sun- 
shine. Marvelling  what  ailed  it,  I  went  to  examine, 
and  found  it  had  been  dead  for  months  —  and  yet 
during  the  winter  there  had  been  no  frost  to  speak  of, 
and  more  than  its  brothers  and  sisters  it  was  in  no 
way  exposed.  These  are  the  tragedies  of  the  garden, 
and  they  shadow  forth  other  tragedies  nearer  us.  In 
every  thing  we  find  a  kind  of  dim  mirror  of  ourselves. 
Sterne,  if  placed  in  a  desert,  said  he  would  love  a 
tree ;  and  I  can  fancy  such  a  love  woul.l  not  bj  alto- 


Books  and  Gardens.  259 

gether  unsatisfying.  Love  of  trees  and  plants  is  safe. 
You  do  not  run  risk  in  your  affections.  Thoy  are  my 
chiMren,  silent  and  beautiful,  untouched  by  any  pas- 
sion, unpolluted  by  evil  tempers ;  for  me  they  leaf 
and  flower  themselves.  In  autumn  they  put  off  their 
rich  apparel,  but  next  year  they  are  back  again  with 
dresses  fair  as  ever  ;  and  —  one  can  extract  a  kind  of 
fanciful  bitterness  from  the  thought —  should  I  be  laid 
in  my  grave  in  winter,  they  would  all  in  spring  be 
back  again  with  faces  as  bright  and  with  breaths  as 
sweet,  missing  me  not  at  all.  Ungrateful,  the  one  I 
am  fondest  of  would  blossom  very  prettily  if  planted 
on  the  soil  that  covers  me  —  where  my  dog  would 
die,  where  my  best  friend  would  perhaps  raise  an  in- 
scription ! 

I  like  flowering  plants,  but  I  like  trees  more,  for 
the  reason,  I  suppose,  that  they  are  slower  in  coming 
to  maturity,  are  longer-lived,  that  you  can  become 
better  acquainted  with  them,  and  that  in  the  course  of 
years  memories  and  associations  hang  as  thickly  on 
their  boughs  as  do  leaves  in  summer  or  fruits  in 
autumn.  I  do  not  wonder  that  great  earls  value  their 
trees,  and  never,  save  in  direst  extremity,  lift  upon 
them  the  axe.  Ancient  descent  and  glory  are  made 
audible  in  the  proud  murmur  of  immemorial  woods. 
There  are  forests  in  England  whose  leafy  noises  may 
be  shaped  into  Agincourt  and  the  names  of  the  battle- 
fields of  the  Roses  ;  oaks  that  dropped  their  acorns  in 
the  year  that  Henry  VIII.  held  his  field  of  the  Cloth  of 


260  Books  and  Gardens. 

Gold,  and  beeches  that  gave  shelter  to  the  deer  when 
Shakspeare  was  a  boy.  There  they  stand,  in  sun  and 
shower,  the  broad-armed  witnesses  of  perished  cen- 
turies ;  and  sore  must  his  need  be  who  commands  a 
woodland  massacre.  A  great  English  tree,  the  rings 
of  a  century  in  its  boll,  is  one  of  the  noblest  of  natu- 
ral objects  ;  and  it  touches  the  imagination  no  less 
than  the  eye,  for  it  grows  out  of  tradition  and  a  past 
order  of  things,  and  is  pathetic  with  the  suggestions 
of  dead  generations.  Trees  waving  a  colony  of  rooks 
in  the  wind  to-day,  are  older  than  historic  lines. 
Trees  are  your  best  antiques.  There  are  cedars  on 
Lebanon  which  the  axes  of  Solomon  spared,  they  say, 
when  he  was  busy  with  his  Temple  ;  there  are  olives 
on  Olivet  that  might  have  rustled  in  the  ears  of  the 
Master  and  the  Twelve ;  there  are  oaks  in  Sher- 
wood, which  have  tingled  to  the  horn  of  Robin- 
hood,  and  have  listened  to  Maid  Marion's  laugh. 
Think  of  an  existing  Syrian  cedar  which  is  nearly 
as  old  as  history,  which  was  middle-aged  before  the 
wolf  suckled  Romulus  ;  think  of  an  existing  Eng- 
lish elm  in  whose  branches  the  heron  was  reared 
which  the  hawks  of  Saxon  Harold  killed  !  If  you 
are  a  notable,  and  wish  to  be  remembered,  better 
plant  a  tree  than  build  a  city  or  strike  a  medal —  it 
will  outlast  both. 

My  trees  are  young  enough,  and  if  they  do  not 
take  me  away  into  the  past,  they  project  me  into  the 
future.     When  I  planted  them,  I  knew  I  was  perform- 


Books  and  Gardens.  261 

ing  an  act,  the  issues  of  which  would  outlast  me  long. 
My  oaks  are  but  saplings  ;  but  what  undreamed-of 
English  kings  will  they  not  outlive?  I  pluck,  my 
apples,  my  pears,  my  plums  ;  and  I  know  that  from 
the  same  branches  other  hands  will  pluck  apples 
pears,  and  plums  when  this  body  of  mine  will  have 
shrunk  into  a  pinch  of  dust.  I  cannot  dream  with 
what  year  these  hands  will  date  their  letters.  A  man 
does  not  plant  a  tree  for  himself,  he  plants  it  for 
posterity.  And  sitting  idly  in  the  sunshine,  I  think 
at  times  of  the  unborn  people  who  will,  to  some 
small  extent,  be  indebted  to  me.  Remember  me 
kindly,  ye  future  men  and  women  !  When  I  am 
dead,  the  juice  of  my  apples  will  foam  and  spirt  in 
your  cider  presses,  my  plums  will  gather  for  you  their 
misty  bloom  ;  and  that  any  of  your  youngsters  should 
be  choked  by  one  of  my  cherry-stones,  merciful 
Heaven  forfend  ! 

In  this  pleasant  summer  weather  I  hold  my  audi- 
ence in  my  garden  rather  than  in  my  house.  In  all 
my  interviews  the  sun  is  a  third  party.  Every  village 
has  its  Fool,  and,  of  course,  Dreamthorp  is  not  without 
one.  Him  I  get  to  run  my  messages  for  me,  and  he 
occasionally  turns  my  garden  borders  with  a  neat 
hand  enough.  He  and  I  hold  frequent  converse,  and 
people  here,  I  have  been  told,  think  we  have  certain 
points  of  sympathy.  Although  this  is  not  meant  for 
a  compliment,  I  take  it  for  one.  The  poor,  faithful 
creature's  brain  has  strange  visitors  :  now  'tis  fun,  now 


262  Books  and  Gardens. 

wisdom,  and  now  something  which  seems  in  the 
queerest  way  a  compound  of  both.  He  lives  in  a 
kind  of  twilight  which  observes  objects,  and  his  re- 
marks seem  to  come  from  another  world  than  thit  in 
which  ordinary  people  live.  He  is  the  only  or'ginal 
person  of  my  acquaintance ;  his  views  cf  life  are 
his  own,  and  form  a  singular  commentary  on  those 
generally  accepted.  He  is  dull  enough  at  times, 
poor  fellow  ;  but  anon  he  startles  you  with  something, 
and  you  think  he  must  have  wandered  out  of  Shak- 
speare's  plays  into  this  out-of-the-way  place.  Up 
from  the  village  now  and  then  comes  to  visit  me  the 
tall,  gaunt,  atrabilious  confectioner,  who  has  a  hanker- 
ing after  Red-republicanism,  and  the  destruction  of 
Queen,  Lords,  and  Commons.  Guy  Fawkes  is,  I 
believe,  the  only  martyr  in  his  calendar.  The  sourest 
tempered  man,  I  think,  that  ever  engaged  in  the 
manufacture  of  sweetmeats.  I  wonder  that  the  oddity 
of  the  thing  never  strikes  himself.  To  be  at  all  con- 
sistent, he  should  put  poison  in  his  lozenges,  and 
become  the  Herod  of  the  village  innocents.  One  of 
his  many  eccentricities  is  a  love  for  flowers,  and  he 
visits  me  often  to  have  a  look  at  my  greenhouse  and 
my  borders.  I  listen  to  his  truculent  and  revolu- 
tionary speeches,  and  take  my  revenge  by  sending 
the  gloomy  egotist  away  with  a  nosegay  in  his  hand, 
and  a  gay-colored  flower  stuck  in  a  button  hole.  He 
goes  quite  unconscious  of  my  floral  satire. 

The  village  clergyman  and  the  village  doctor  are 


Books  and  Gardens.  263 

great  friends  of  mine  ;  they  come  to  visit  me  often, 
and  smoke  a  pipe  M'ith  me  in  my  garden.  The  twain 
love  and  respect  each  other,  but  they  regard  the 
world  from  different  points  of  view,  and  I  am  now 
and  again  made  witness  of  a  good-humored  passage 
of  arms.  The  clergyman  is  old,  unmarried,  and  a 
humorist.  His  sallies  and  his  gentle  eccentricities 
seldom  provoke  laughter,  but  they  are  continually 
awakening  the  plcasantest  smiles.  Perhaps  what  he 
has  seen  of  the  world,  its  sins,  its  sorrows,  its  death- 
beds, its  widows  and  orphans,  has  tamed  his  spirit, 
and*  put  a  tenderness  into  his  wit.  I  do  not  think  I 
have  ever  encountered  a  man  who  so  adorns  his 
sacred  profession.  His  pious,  devout  nature  pro- 
duces sermons  just  as  naturally  as  my  apple-trees 
produce  apples.  He  is  a  tree  that  flowers  every 
Sunday.  Very  beautiful  in  his  reverence  for  the 
Book,  his  trust  in  it ;  through  long  acquaintance,  its 
ideas  have  come  to  color  his  entire  thought,  and 
you  come  upon  its  phrases  in  his  ordinary  speech. 
He  is  more  himself  in  the  pulpit  than  any  where  else, 
and  you  get  nearer  him  in  his  sermons  than  you  do 
sitting  with  him  at  his  tea-table,  or  walking  with  him 
on  the  country  roads.  He  does  not  feol  confined  in 
his  orthodoxy  ;  in  it  he  is  free  as  a  bird  in  the  air. 
The  doctor  is,  I  conceive,  as  good  a  Christian  as  the 
clerg}Tnan,  but  he  is  impatient  of  pale  or  limit ;  he 
never  comes  to  a  fence  without  feeling  a  desire  to  get 
over  it.     He    is    a   great  hunter  of   insects,  and  he 


264  Books  and  Gardens. 

thinks  that  the  wings  of  his  butterflies  might  yield 
very  excellent  texts ;  he  is  fond  of  geology,  and  can- 
not, especially  when  he  is  in  the  company  of  the 
clergyman,  resist  the  temptation  of  hurling  a  fossil  at 
Moses.  He  wears  his  scepticism  as  a  coquette  wears 
her  ribbons,  —  to  annoy  if  he  cannot  subdue,  —  and 
when  his  purpose  is  served,  he  puts  his  scepticism 
aside  — as  the  coquette  puts  her  ribbons.  Great  argu- 
ments arise  between  them,  and  the  doctor  loses  his 
field  through  his  loss  of  temper,  which,  however,  he 
regains  before  any  harm  is  done.  For  the  worthy  man 
is  irascible  withal,  and  opposition  draws  fire  from  him. 
After  an  outburst,  there  is  a  truce  between  the 
friends  for  a  while,  till  it  is  broken  by  theological 
battle  over  the  age  of  the  world,  or  some  other  the 
like  remote  matter,  which  seems  important  to  me 
only  in  so  far  as  it  affords  ground  for  disputa- 
tion. These  truces  are  broken  sometimes  by  the 
doctor,  sometimes  by  the  clergyman.  T'  other  even- 
ing the  doctor  and  myself  were  sitting  in  the  garden, 
smoking  each  a  meditative  pipe.  Dreamthorp  lay 
below,  with  its  old  castle  and  its  lake,  and  its  hundred 
wreaths  of  smoke  floating  upward  into  the  sunset. 
Where  we  sat  the  voices  of  children  playing  in  the 
street  could  hardly  reach  us.  Suddenly  a  step  was 
heard  on  the  gravel,  and  the  next  moment  the  clergy- 
man appeared,  as  it  seemed  to  me,  with  a  peculiar 
airiness  of  aspect,  and  the  light  of  a  humorous  satis- 
faction in  his  eye.     After   the   usual  salutations  he 


Books  and  Gardens.  265 

took  his  seat  beside  us,  lifted  a  pipe  of  the  kind 
called  "  church- warden "  from  the  box  on  the  ground, 
filled  and  light?d  it,  and  for  a  little  while  we  Avere 
silent  all  three.  The  clergyman  then  drew  an  old 
magazine  from  his  side  pocket,  opened  it  at  a  place 
where  the  leaf  had  been  carefully  turned  down,  and 
drew  my  attention  to  a  short  poem,  which  had  for  its 
title,  "  Vanity  Fair,"  imprinted  in  German  text.  This 
poem  he  desired  me  to  read  aloud.  Laying  down 
my  pipe  carefully  beside  me,  I  complied  with  his 
request.  It  ran  thus,  for  as  after  my  friends  went  it 
was  left  behind,  I  have  written  it  down  word  for 
word :  — 

"  The  world-old  Fair  of  Vanity 

Since  Bunyan's  day  has  grown  discreeter ; 
No  more  it  flocks  in  crowds  to  see 
A  blazing  Paul  or  Peter. 

'*  Not  that  a  single  inch  it  swerves 

From  hate  of  saint,  or  love  of  sinner ; 
But  martyrs  shock  sesthetic  nerves, 
And  spoil  the  goiit  of  dinner. 

"  Raise  but  a  shout,  or  flaunt  a  scarf — 
Its  mobs  are  all  agog  and  flying  ; 
They  '11  cram  the  levee  of  a  dwarf, 
And  leave  a  Haydon  dying. 

"  They  live  upon  each  newest  thing, 
They  fill  their  idle  days  with  seeing ; 
Fresh  news  of  courtier  and  of  king 
Sustains  their  empty  being. 

"  The  statelier,  from  year  to  year, 

Maintain  their  comfortable  stations. 
At  the  wide  windows  that  o'erpeer 
The  public  square  of  nations  ; 


266  Books  and  Gardens. 


••  While  through  it  heaves,  witli  cheers  and  groans, 
Harsli  drums  of  battle  in  the  distance. 
Frightful  witli  gallows,  ropes,  and  thrones, 
The  medley  of  existence  ; 

*•  Amongst  them  tongues  are  wagging  much ; 
Hark  to  the  philosophic  sisters  ! 
To  his,  whose  keen  satiric  touch. 
Like  the  Medusa,  blisters  ! 

"  All  things  are  made  for  talk  —  St.  Paul  — 
Tlie  pattern  of  an  altar  cushion  — 
A  Paris  wild  with  carnival. 
Or  red  with  revolution. 

"  And  much  they  knew,  that  sneering  crew, 
Of  things  above  the  world  and  under  : 
They  searched  the  hoary  deep  ;  they  knew 
The  secret  of  the  thunder ; 

«'  The  pure  white  arrow  of  the  light 
They  split  into  its  colors  seven  ; 
They  weighed  the  sun  ;  they  dwelt,  like  night, 
Among  the  stars  of  heaven  ; 

"  They've  found  out  life  and  death  —  the  first  — 
Is  known  but  to  the  upper  classes  — 
The  second,  pooli !   'tis  at  tlie  worst 
A  dissolution  into  gases. 

"  And  vice  and  virtue  are  akin 

As  black  and  white  from  Adam  issue  — 
One  flesh,  one  blood,  though  sheeted  in 
A  different-colored  tissue. 

"  Their  science  groped  from  star  to  star. 

But  then  herself  found  nothing  greater  — 
What  wonder .'  in  a  Leyden  jar 
They  bottled  the  Creator. 

"  Fires  fluttered  on  their  lightning-rod  ; 

They  cleared  the  human  mind  from  error ; 
They  emptied  heaven  of  its  God, 
And  Tophet  of  its  terror. 

"  Better  the  savage  in  his  dance 

Than  these  acute  and  syllogistic  ! 


Books  and  Gardens.  267 


Better  a  reverent  ignorance 
Than  knowled<,'-e  atheistic  I 

"  Have  thoy  dispelled  one  cloud  that  lowers 
So  darkly  on  the  human  creature  ? 
They  with  their  irrolin^ious  powers 
Have  subjugated  nature. 

«'  But  as  a  satyr  wins  the  charms 
Of  maiden  in  a  forest  hearted, 
He  finds,  when  clasped  within  his  arms, 
The  outraged  soul  departed." 


When  I  had  done  reading  these  verses,  the  clergy- 
man glanced  slyly  along  to  see  the  effect  of  his  shot. 
The  doctor  drew  two  or  three  hurried  whifFs,  gave  a 
huge  grunt  of  scorn,  then  turning  sharply,  asked, 
"  What  is  '  a  reverent  ignor.;nc2  ? '  What  is  '  a  knowl- 
edge atheistic  ?  '  "  The  clergyman,  skewered  by  the 
sudden  question,  wriggled  a  littb,  and  then  began  to 
explain  —  with  no  great  heart,  however,  for  he  had  had 
his  little  joke  out,  and  did  not  care  to  carry  it  further. 
The  doctor  listened  for  a  little,  and  then,  laying  down 
his  pipe,  said  with  some  heat,  "  It  won't  do.  '  Reverent 
ignorance'  and  such  trash  is  a  mere  jingle  of  words  : 
that  you  know  as  well  as  I.  You  stumbled  on  these 
verses,  and  brought  them  up  here  to  throw  them  at 
me.  They  don't  harm  me  in  the  least,  I  can  assure 
you.  There  is  no  use,"  continued  the  doctor,  molli- 
fying at  the  sight  of  his  friend's  countenance,  and 
seeing  how  the  land  lay  —  "  there  is  no  use  speaking 
on  such  matters  to  our  incurious,  solitary  friend  here, 
who  could  bask  comfortably  in  sunshine  for  a  century. 


268  Books  and  Gardens. 

without  once  inquiring  whence  came  the  light  and 
heat.  But  let  me  tell  you,"  lifting  his  pipe  and  shaking 
it  across  me  at  the  clergyman,  "  that  science  has  done 
services  to  your  cloth  which  have  not  always  received 
the  most  grateful  acknowledgments.  Why,  man,"  here 
he  began  to  fiU  his  pip3  slowly,  "  the  theologian  and 
the  man  of  science,  although  they  seem  to  diverge  and 
lose  sight  of  each  other,  are  all  the  while  working  to 
one  end.  Two  exploring  parties  in  Australia  set  out 
from  one  point ;  the  one  goes  east  and  the  other  west. 
They  lose  sight  of  each  other  —  they  know  nothing  of 
one  another's  whereabouts  —  but  they  are  aU  steering 
to  one  point*' — the  sharp  spirt  of  a  fusee  on  the  garden 
seat  came  in  here,  followed  by  an  aromatic  flavor  in 
the  air  —  "  and  when  they  do  meet,  which  they  are 
certain  to  do  in  the  long  run  "  —  here  the  doctor  put 
the  pipe  in  his  mouth,  and  finished  his  speech  with  it 
there  —  "  the  figure  of  the  continent  has  become  known, 
and  may  be  set  down  in  maps.  The  exploring  parties 
have  started  long  ago.  What  folly  in  the  one  to 
pooh-pooh,  or  be  suspicious  of  the  exertions  of  the 
other.  That  party  deserves  the  greatest  credit  which 
meets  the  other  more  than  half  way."  —  "  Bravo  !  " 
cried  the  clerg}Tnan,  when  the  doctor  had  finished 
his  oration  ;  "I  don't  know  that  I  could  fill  your 
place  at  the  bed-side,  but  I  am  quite  sure  that  you 
could  fiU  mine  in  the  pulpit."  —  "I  am  not  sure  that 
the  congregation  would  approve  of  the  change  —  I 
might  disturb  their  slumbers  ;  "  and,  pleased  with  his 


Books  and  Gardens.  269 

retort,  his  cheery  laugh  rose  through  a  cloud  of  smoke 
into  the  sunset. 

Hcigho !  mine  is  a  duU  life,  I  fear,  when  this  little 
affair  of  the  doctor  and  the  clergyman  takes  the  dignity 
of  an  incident,  and  seems  worthy  of  being  recorded. 

The  doctor  was  anxious  that,  during  the  following 
winter,  a  short  course  of  lectures  should  be  delivered 
in  the  village  school-room,  and  in  my  garden  he  held 
several  conferences  on  the  matter  with  the  clergyman 
and  myself.  It  was  arranged  finally  that  the  lectures 
should  be  delivered,  and  that  one  of  them  should  be 
delivered  by  me.  I  need  not  say  how  pleasant  was 
the  writing  out  of  my  discourse,  tmd  how  the  pleasure 
was  heightened  by  the  slightest  thrill  of  alarm  at  my 
own  temerity.  My  lecture  I  copied  out  in  my  most 
careful  hand,  and,  as  I  had  it  by  heart,  I  us?d  to 
declaim  passages  of  it  ensconced  in  my  moss-house, 
or  concealed  behind  my  shrubbery  trees.  In  these 
places  I  tried  it  all  over  sentence  by  sentence.  The 
evening  came  at  last  which  had  been  looked  forward 
to  for  a  coaple  of  months  or  more.  The  small  school- 
room was  filled  by  forms  on  which  the  people  sat, 
and  a  small  reading-desk,  with  a  tumbler  of  water  on 
it,  at  the  further  end,  waited  for  me.  When  I  took 
my  seat,  the  couple  of  hundred  eyes  struck  into  me 
a  certain  awe.  I  discovered  in  a  moment  why  the 
orator  of  the  hustings  is  so  deferential  to  the  mob. 
You  may  despise  every  individu  1  member  of  your 
audience,   but   these    despised   individuals,   in   their 


270  Books  and  Gardens. 

capacity  of  a  collective  body,  overpower  you.  I  ad- 
dressed the  people  with  the  most  unfeigned  respect. 
When  I  began,  too,  I  fo  ind  what  a  dreadful  thing  it 
is  to  hear  your  own  voice  inhabiting  the  silence.  You 
are  related  to  your  voice,  and  yet  divorced  from  it. 
It  is  you,  and  yet  a  thing  apart.  All  the  time  it  is 
going  on,  you  can  be  critical  as  to  its  tone,  volume, 
cadence,  and  other  qualities,  as  if  it  was  the  voice  of 
a  stranger.  Gradually,  however,  I  got  accustomed  to 
my  voice,  and  the  respect  which  I  entertained  for  my 
hearers  so  far  relaxed  that  I  was  at  last  able  to  look 
them  in  the  face.  I  savv  the  doctor  and  the  clergy- 
man smile  encouragingly,  and  my  half-witted  gardener 
looking  up  at  me  with  open  mouth,  and  the  atra- 
bilious confectioner  clap  his  hands,  which  made  me 
take  refuge  in  my  paper  again.  I  got  to  the  end  of 
my  task  without  any  remarkable  incident,  if  I  except 
the  doctor's  once  calling  out  "  hear  '  loudly,  which 
brought  the  heart  into  my  mouth,  and  blurred  half  a 
sentence.  When  I  sat  down,  there  were  the  usual 
sounds  of  approbation,  and  the  confectioner  returned 
thanks  in  the  name  of  the  audience. 


ON  VAGABONDS. 

BEING  A  DISCOURSE  DELIVERED  BEFORE  THE  DREAM- 
THORP  LITERARY  INSTITUTE,  SESSION  1862-63. 

CALL  it  oddity,  eccentricity,  humor,  or  what  you 
please,  it  is  evident  that  the  special  flavor  of 
mind  or  manner,  which,  independently  of  fortune, 
station,  or  profession,  sets  a  man  apart  and  makes 
him  distinguishable  from  his  fellows,  and  which  gives 
the  charm  of  picturesqueness  to  society,  is  fast  dis- 
appearing from  amongst  us.  A  man  may  count  the 
odd  people  of  his  acquaintance  on  his  fingers  ;  and  it 
is  observable  that  these  odd  people  are  generally  well 
stricken  in  years.  They  belong  more  to  the  past 
generation  than  to  the  present.  Our  young  men 
are  terribly  alike.  For  these  many  years  back  the 
young  gentlemen  I  have  had  the  fortune  to  en- 
counter are  clever,  knowing,  selfish,  disagreeable  ;  the 
young  ladies  are  of  one  pattern  like  minted  sover- 
eigns of  the  same  reign  —  excellent  gold,  I  have  no 
doubt,  but  each  bearing  the  same  awfuUy  proper 
image  and  superscription.      There  are  no  blanks  in 


272  On   Vagabonds. 

the  matrimonial  lottery  now-a-days,  but  the  prizes  are 
all  of  a  value,  and  there  is  but  one  kind  of  article 
given  for  the  ticket.  Courtship  is  an  absurdity,  and 
a  sheer  waste  of  time.  If  a  man  could  but  close  his 
eyes  in  a  ball-room,  dash  into  a  bevy  of  muslin 
beauties,  carry  off  the  fair  one  that  accident  gives  to 
his  arms,  his  raid  would  be  as  reasonable  and  as 
likely  to  produce  happiness  as  the  more  ordinary 
methods  of  procuring  a  spouse.  If  a  man  has  to 
choose  one  guinea  out  of  a  bag  containing  one  hun- 
dred and  fifty,  what  can  he  do  ?  What  wonderful 
wisdom  can  he  display  in  his  choice  ?  There  is  no 
appreciable  di Terence  of  value  in  the  golden  pieces. 
The  latest  coined  are  a  little  fresher,  that's  all.  An 
act  of  uniformity,  with  heavy  penalties  for  recusants, 
seems  to  have  b:en  passed  upon  the  English  race. 
That  we  can  quite  well  account  for  this  state  of  things, 
does  not  make  the  matter  better,  does  not  make  it 
the  less  our  duty  to  fight  against  it.  We  are  apt  to 
be  told  that  men  are  too  busy  and  women  too  accom- 
plished for  humor  of  speech  or  originality  of  char- 
acter or  manner.  In  the  truth  of  this  lies  the  pity  of 
it.  If,  with  the  exceptions  of  hedges  that  divide 
fields,  and  streams  that  run  as  marches  between 
farms,  every  inch  of  soil  were  drained,  ploughed, 
manured,  and  under  that  improved  cultivation  rush- 
ing up  into  astonish'ng  wheatjn  and  oaten  crops, 
enriching  tenant  and  proprietor,  the  aspect  of  the 
country  wou'd  be  decidedly  uninteresting,  and  would 


On    Vagabonds.  273 

present  scant  attraction  to  the  man  riding  or  walking 
through  it.  In  such  a  world  the  tourists  would  be 
few.  Personally,  I  should  detest  a  world  all  red  and 
ruled  with  the  ploughshare  in  spring,  all  covered  with 
harvest  in  autumn.  I  wish  a  little  variety.  I  desid- 
erate moors  and  barren  places ;  the  copse  where  you 
can  flush  the  wood-cock  ;  the  warren  where,  when  you 
approach,  you  can  see  the  twinkle  of  innumerable 
rabbit  tails ;  and,  to  tell  the  truth,  would  not  feel 
sorry  although  Reynard  himself  had  a  hole  beneath 
the  wooded  bank,  even  if  the  demands  of  his  rising 
family  cost  Farmer  Yellow  leas  a  fat  capon  or  two  in 
the  season.  The  fresh,  rough,  heathery  p^ts  of  hu- 
man nature,  where  the  air  is  freshest,  and  where  the 
linnets  sing,  is  getting  encroached  upon  by  cultivated 
fields.  Every  one  is  making  himself  and  herself  use- 
ful. Every  one  is  producing  something.  Every  body 
is  clever.  Every  body  is  a  philanthropist.  I  don't 
like  it.  I  love  a  little  eccentricity.  I  respect  honest 
prejudices.  I  admire  foolish  enthusiasm  in  a  young 
head  better  than  a  wise  scepticism.  It  is  high  time, 
it  seems  to  me,  that  a  moral  game-law  were  passed 
for  the  preservation  of  the  wUd  and  vagrant  feelings 
of  human  nature. 

I  have  advertised  myself  to  speak  of  vagabonds, 
and  I  must  explain  what  I  mean  by  the  term.  We 
all  know  what  was  the  doom  of  the  first  child  born  of 
man,  and  it  is  needless  for  me  to  say  that  I  do  not 
wish  the  spirit  of  Cain  more  widely  diffused  amongst 
18 


274  On   Vagabonds. 

my  fellow-creatures.  By  vagabond,  I  do  not  mean  a 
tramp,  or  a  gypsy,  or  a  thimblerigger,  or  a  brawler 
who  is  brought  up  with  a  black  eye  before  a  magis- 
trate of  a  morning.  The  vagabond  as  I  have  him  in 
my  mind's  eye,  and  whom  I  dearly  love,  comes  out  of 
quite  a  different  mould.  The  man  I  speak  of  seldom, 
it  is  true,  attains  to  the  dignity  of  a  church-warden  ; 
he  is  never  found  sitting  at  a  reformed  town- council 
board  ;  he  has  a  horror  of  public  platforms ;  he  never 
by  any  chance  heads  a  subscription-list  with  a  dona- 
tion of  fifty  pounds.  On  the  other  hand,  he  is  very 
far  from  being  a  "  ne'er-do-weel,"  as  the  Scotch  phrase 
it,  or  an  imprudent  person.  He  does  not  play  at 
"  Aunt  Sally"  on  a  public  race-course  ;  he  does  not 
wrench  knockers  from  the  doors  of  slumbering  citi- 
zens ;  he  has  never  seen  the  interior  of  a  police  cell. 
It  is  quite  true,  he  has  a  peculiar  way  of  looking  at 
many  things.  If,  for  instance,  he  is  brought  up  with 
cousin  Milly,  and  loves  her  dearly,  and  the  childish 
affection  grows  up  and  strengthens  in  the  woman's 
heart,  and  there  is  a  fair  chance  for  them  fighting  the 
world  side  by  side,  he  marries  her  without  too  curi- 
ously considering  whether  his  income  will  permit  him 
to  give  dinner-parties,  and  otherwise  fashionably  see 
his  friends.  Very  imprudent,  no  doubt.  But  you 
cannot  convince  my  vagabond.  With  the  strangest 
logical  twist,  which  seems  natural  to  him,  he  con- 
ceives that  he  marries  for  his  own  sake,  and  not 
for  the  sake  of  his  acquaintances,  and  that  the  pos- 


On    Vagabonds.  275 

session  of  a  loving  heart  and  a  conscience  void  of 
reproach,  is  worth,  at  any  time,  an  odd  sovereign 
in  his  pocket.  The  vagabond  is  not  a  favorite  with 
the  respectable  classes.  He  is  particularly  feared 
by  mammas  who  have  daughters  to  dispose  of — not 
that  he  is  a  bad  son,  or  likely  to  prove  a  bad  hus- 
band, or  a  treacherous  friend,  but  somehow  gold 
does  not  stick  to  his  fingers  as  it  does  to  the  fingers 
of  some  men.  He  is  regardless  of  appearances.  He 
chooses  his  friends  neither  for  their  fine  houses  nor 
their  rare  wines,  but  for  their  humors,  their  goodness 
of  heart,  their  capacities  of  making  a  joke  and  of 
seeing  one,  and  for  their  abilities,  unknown  often  as 
the  woodland  violet,  but  not  the  less  sweet  for  ob- 
scurity. As  a  consequence  his  acqu  lintance  is  mis- 
cellaneous, and  he  is  often  seen  at  other  places  than 
rich  men's  feasts.  I  do  believe  he  is  a  gainer  by 
reason  of  his  vagrant  ways.  He  comes  in  contact 
with  the  queer  corners  and  the  out-of-the-way  places 
of  human  life.  He  knows  more  of  our  common 
nature,  just  as  the  man  who  walks  through  a  country, 
and  who  strikes  off  the  main  road  now  and  then  to  visit 
a  ruin,  or  a  legendary  cairn  of  stones,  who  drops  into 
village  inns,  and  talks  with  tho  people  he  meets  on 
the  road,  becomes  better  acquainted  with  it  than 
the  man  who  rolls  haughtily  along  the  turnpike  in 
a  carriage  and  four.  We  lose  a  great  deal  by  foolish 
biuteur.  No  man  is  worth  much  who  has  not  a 
touch  of  the  vagabond  in  him.     Could  I  have  visited 


276  On    Vagabonds. 

London  thirty  years  ago,  I  would  rather  have  spent 
an  hour  with  Charles  Lamb  than  with  any  other  of  its 
residents.  He  was  a  fine  specimen  of  the  vagab;;nd, 
as  I  conceive  him.  His  mind  was  as  full  of  queer 
nooks  and  tortuous  passages  as  any  mansion-house  of 
Elizabeth's  day  or  earlier,  where  the  rooms  are  cosey, 
albeit  a  little  low  in  the  roof;  where  dusty  stained 
lights  are  falling  on  old  oaken  panellings  ;  where  every 
bit  of  furniture  has  a  reverent  flavor  of  ancientness ; 
where  portraits  of  noble  men  and  women,  all  dead 
long  ago,  are  hang'ng  on  the  walls;  and  where  a 
black-letter  Chaucer  with  silver  clasps  is  lying  open 
on  a  seat  in  the  window.  There  was  nothing  modern 
about  him.  The  garden  of  his  mind  did  not  flaunt 
in  gay  parterres  ;  it  resembled  those  that  Cowley  and 
Evelyn  delighted  in,  with  clipped  trees,  and  shaven 
lawns,  and  stone  sat)Ts,  and  dark,  shadowing  yews, 
and  a  sun-dial  with  a  Latin  motto  sculptured  on  it, 
standing  at  the  farther  end.  Lamb  was  the  slave 
of  quip  and  whimsey;  he  stuttered  out  puns  to  the 
detriment  of  all  serious  and  improving  conversation, 
and  twice  or  so  in  the  year  he  was  overtaken  in 
liquor.  Well,  in  spite  of  these  things,  perhaps  on 
account  of  these  things,  I  love  his  memory.  For  love 
and  chari^.y  ripened  in  that  nature  as  peaches  ripen  on 
the  wall  that  fronts  the  sun.  Although  he  did  not 
blow  his  trumpet  in  the  corners  of  the  streets,  he  was 
tried,  as  few  men  are,  and  fell  not.  He  jested  that  he 
might  not  weep.     He  wore  a  martjT's  heart  beneath 


On    Vagabonds.  277 

his  suit  of  motley.  And  only  years  after  his  death, 
when  to  admiration  or  censure  he  was  alike  insensible, 
did  the  world  know  his  story,  and  that  of  his  sister 
Mary. 

Ah,  me  !  what  a  world  this  was  to  live  in  two  or 
three  centuries  ago,  when  it  was  getting  itself  dis- 
covered —  when  the  sunset  gave  up  America,  when  a 
ste3l  hand  had  the  spoiling  of  Mexico  and  Peru ! 
Then  were  the  "  Arabian  Nights  "  common-place,  en- 
chantments a  matter  of  course,  and  romance  the  most 
ord-nary  thing  in  the  world.  Then  man  was  cc  rting 
Nature,  now  he  has  married  her.  Every  myotery  is 
dissipated.  The  planet  is  familiar  as  the  trodden 
pathway  running  between  towns.  We  no  longer  g  ize 
wistfully  to  the  west,  dreaming  of  the  Fortunate  Isles. 
We  seek  our  wonders  now  on  the  ebbed  sea-shore ; 
we  discover  our  new  worlds  with  the  microscope. 
Yet,  for  all  that  time  has  brought  and  taken  away, 
I  am  glad  to  know  that  the  vagabond  sleeps  in  our 
blood  and  awakes  now  and  then.  Overlay  human 
nature  as  you  please,  here  and  there  some  bit  of 
rock,  or  mound  of  aboriginal  soil,  will  crop  out  with 
the  wld  flowers  growing  upon  it,  sweetening  the  air. 
When  the  boy  throws  his  Delectus  or  his  Euclid  aside, 
and  takes  passionately  to  the  readirg  of  "  Robinson 
Cruso3  "  or  Bruce's  "  African  Travels,"  do  not  shake 
your  head  despondingly  over  him  and  prophesy  evil 
issues.  Let  the  wild  hawk  try  its  wings.  It  will  be 
hooded,  and  will  sit  quietly  enough  on  the  falconer's 


278  On    Vagabonds. 

perch  ere  long.  Let  the  wild  horse  career  over  its 
boundless  pampas  ;  the  jerk  of  the  lasso  will  bring  it 
down  soon  enough.  Soon  enough  will  the  snaffle  in 
the  mouth  and  the  spur  of  the  tamer  subdue  the  high 
spirit  to  the  bridle,  or  the  carriage-trace.  Perhaps 
not,  and  if  so,  the  better  for  all  parties.  Once 
more  there  will  be  a  new  man  and  new  deeds  in 
the  world.  For  Genius  is  a  vagabond.  Art  is  a  vaga- 
bond. Enterprise  is  a  vagabond.  Vagabonds  have 
moulded  the  world  into  its  present  shape  ;  they  have 
made  the  houses  in  which  we  dwell,  the  roads  on 
which  we  ride  and  drive,  the  very  laws  that  govern 
us.  Respectable  people  swarm  in  the  track  of  the 
vagabond  as  rooks  in  the  track  of  the  ploughshare. 
Respectable  people  do  little  in  the  world  except  stor- 
ing wine  cellars  and  amassing  fortunes  for  the  benefit 
of  spendthrift  heirs.  Respectable  well-to-do  Greci  ins 
shook  their  heads  over  Leonidas  and  his  three  hun- 
dred when  they  went  down  to  Thermopylae.  Respec- 
table Spanish  churchmen  with  shaven  crowns  scouted 
the  dream  of  Columbus.  Respectable  German  folks 
attempted  to  dissuade  Luther  from  appearing  before 
Charles  and  the  princes  and  electors  of  the  empire, 
and  were  scanJalized  when  he  declared  that  "  were 
there  as  many  devils  in  Worms  as  there  were  tiles  on 
the  house-tops,  still  would  he  on."  Nat';re  makes  us 
vagabonds,  the  wo  Id  makes  us  respectable. 

In  the  fine  sense  in  whi  h   I  take  the  word,  the 
English  are  the  greatest  vagabonds  on  the  earth,  and 


On    Vagabonds.  279 

it  is  the  healthiest  trait  in  their  national  character. 
The  first  fine  day  in  spring  awakes  the  gypsy  in  the 
blood  of  the  English  workman,  and  incontinently  he 
"  babbles  of  green  fields."  On  the  English  gentleman, 
lapped  in  the  most  luxurious  civilization,  and  with  the 
thousand  powers  and  resources  of  wealth  at  his  com- 
mand, descends  oftentimes  a  fierce  unrest,  a  Bedouin- 
like horror  of  cities  and  the  cry  of  the  money-changer, 
and  in  a  month  the  fiery  dust  rises  in  the  track  of  his 
desert  steed,  or  in  the  six  months'  polar  midnight  he 
hoars  the  big  wave  clashing  on  the  icy  shore.  The 
close  presence  of  the  sea  feeds  the  Englishman's 
restlessness.  She  takes  possession  of  his  heart  like 
some  fair  capricious  mistress.  Before  the  boy  awakes 
to  the  beauty  of  cousin  Mary,  he  is  crazed  by  the 
fascinations  of  ocean.  With  her  voices  of  ebb  and 
flow  she  weaves  her  siren  song  round  the  English- 
man's coasts  day  and  night.  Nothing  that  dwells  on 
land  can  keep  from  her  embrace  the  boy  who  has 
gazed  upon  her  dangerous  beauty,  and  who  has  heard 
her  singing  songs  of  foreign  shores  at  the  foot  of  the 
summer  crag.  It  is  well  that  in  the  modern  gentle- 
man the  fierce  heart  of  the  Berserker  lives  yet. 
The  English  are  eminently  a  nation  of  vagabonds. 
The  sun  paints  English  faces  with  all  the  colors  of 
his  climes.  The  Englishman  is  ubiquitous.  He 
shakes  with  fever  and  ague  in  the  swampy  valley  of 
the  Mississippi ;  he  is  drowned  in  the  sand  pillars  as 
they  waltz  across  the  desert  on  the  purple  breath  of 


280  On    Vagabonds. 

the  simoom ;  he  stands  on  the  icy  scalp  of  Mont 
Blanc  ;  his  fly  falls  in  ths  sullen  Norwegian  fiords  ;  he 
invades  the  solitude  of  the  Cape  lion  ;  he  rides  on  his 
donkey  through  the  uncausewayed  Cairo  streets.  That 
wealthy  people,  under  a  despotism,  should  be  travellers 
s?ems  a  natural  thing  enough.  It  is  a  way  of  escape 
from  the  rigors  of  their  condition.  But  that  Eng- 
land,—  where  activity  rages  so  keenly  and  engrosses 
every  class ;  where  the  prizes  of  Parliament,  litera- 
ture, commerce,  the  bar,  the  church  are  hungered  and 
thirsted  after ;  where  the  stress  and  intensity  of  life 
ages  a  man  before  his  time  ;  where  so  many  of  the 
noblest  break  down  in  harness  hardly  half-way  to  the 
goal  —  should,  year  after  year,  send  off  swarms  of 
men  to  roam  the  world,  and  to  seek  out  danger  for 
the  mere  thrill  and  enjoyment  of  it,  is  significant 
of  the  indomitable  pluck  and  spirit  of  the  race. 
There  is  scant  danger  that  the  rust  of  sloth  will  eat 
into  the  virtue  of  English  steel.  The  English  do  the 
hard  work  and  the  travelling  of  the  world.  The 
least  revolutionary  nation  of  Europe,  the  one  with 
the  greatest  temptations  to  stay  at  home,  with  the 
greatest  faculty  for  work,  with  perhaps  the  sincerest 
regard  for  wealth,  is  also  the  most  nomadic.  How  is 
this  ?  It  is  because  they  are  a  nation  of  vagabonds ; 
they  have  the  "  hungry  i^eart "  that  one  of  their 
poets  speaks  about. 

There    is  an   amiability   about   the  genuine   vaga- 
bond which  takes  captive  the  heart.     We  do  not  love 


On    Vagabonds.  281 

a  man  for  his  respectability,  his  prudence  and  fore- 
sight in  business,  his  capacity  of  living  within  his 
income,  or  his  balance  at  his  banker's.  We  all  admit 
that  prudence  is  an  admirable  virtue,  and  occasionally 
lament,  about  Christmas,  when  bills  fall  in,  that  we  do 
not  inherit  it  in  a  greater  degree.  But  we  speak  about 
it  in  quite  a  cool  way.  It  does  not  touch  us  with 
enthusiasm.  If  a  calculating-machine  had  a  hand  to 
wring,  it  would  find  few  to  wring  it  warmly.  The 
things  that  really  move  liking  in  human  beings  are  the 
gnarled  nodosities  of  character,  vagrant  humors,  freaks 
of  generosity,  some  little  unextinguishable  spark  of  the 
aboriginal  savage,  some  little  sweet  savor  of  the  old 
Adam.  It  is  quite  wonderful  how  far  simple  gener- 
osity and  kindliness  of  heart  go  in  securing  affection  ; 
and,  when  these  exist,  what  a  host  cf  apologists  spring 
up  for  faults  and  vices  even.  A  country  squire  goes 
recklessly  to  the  dogs,  yet  if  he  has  a  kind  word  for 
his  tenant  when  he  meets  him,  a  frank  greeting  for  the 
rustic  beauty  when  she  drops  a  courtesy  to  him  on  the 
highway,  he  lives  for  a  whole  generation  in  an  odor 
of  sanctity.  If  he  had  been  a  disdainful,  hook-nosed, 
prime  minister,  who  had  carried  his  country  triumph- 
antly through  some  frightful  crisis  of  war,  these  people 
would,  perhaps,  nover  have  been  aware  of  the  fact ; 
and  most  certainly  never  would  have  tendered  him  a 
word  of  thanks,  even  if  they  had.  When  that  important 
question,  "  Which  is  the  greatest  f.  e  to  the  public 
weal  —  the  miser  or  the  spendthrift?"  is  discussed  at 


282  On    Vagabonds. 

the  artisans'  debating  club,  the  spendthrift  has  all 
the  eloquence  on  his  side  —  the  miser  all  the  votes. 
The  miser's  advocate  is  nowhere,  and  he  pleads  the 
cause  of  his  client  with  only  half  his  heart.  In  the 
theatre,  Charles  Surface  is  applauded,  and  Joseph 
Surface  is  hissed.  The  novel-reader's  affection  goes 
out  to  Tom  Jones,  his  hatred  to  Blifil.  Joseph  Sur- 
face and  Blifil  are  scoundrels,  it  is  true,  but  deduct 
the  scoundrelism,  let  Joseph  be  but  a  stale  proverb- 
monger  and  Blifil  a  conceited  prig,  and  the  issue  re- 
mains the  same.  Good  humor  and  generosity  carry 
the  day  with  the  pop  lar  heart  all  the  world  over. 
Tom  Jones  and  Charles  Surface  are  not  vagabonds 
to  my  taste.  They  were  shabby  fellows  both,  and 
were  treated  a  great  deal  too  well.  But  there  are 
other  vagabonds  whom  I  1  )ve,  and  whom  I  do  well 
to  love.  With  what  affection  do  I  follow  little  Ish- 
mael  and  his  broken-hearted  mother  out  into  the  great 
and  terrible  wilderness,  and  see  them  faint  beneath 
the  ardors  of  the  sunlight.  And  we  feel  it  to  be 
strict  poetic  justice  and  compensation,  that  the  lad  so 
driven  forth  from  human  tents  should  become  the 
father  of  wild  Arabian  men,  to  whom  the  air  of  cities 
is  poison,  who  work  not  with  any  tool,  and  on  whose 
limbs  no  conqueror  has  ever  yet  been  able  to  rivet 
shackle  or  chain.  Then  there  are  Abraham's  grand- 
children, Jacob  and  Esau  —  the  former,  I  confess,  no 
favorite  of  mine.  His,  up  at  least  to  his  closing 
years,    when   parental   affection    and   strong   sorrow 


On   Vagabonds.  283 

softened  him,  was  a  character  not  amiable.  He 
lacked  generosity,  and  had  too  keen  an  eye  on  his 
own  advancement.  He  did  not  inherit  the  noble 
strain  of  his  ancestors.  He  was  a  prosperous  man ; 
yet  in  spite  of  his  increase  in  flocks  and  herds,  —  in 
spite  of  his  vision  of  the  ladder  with  the  angels  ascend- 
ing and  descending  upon  it,  —  in  spite  of  the  success 
of  his  beloved  son,  —  in  spite  of  the  weeping  and 
lamentation  of  the  Egyptians  at  his  death,  —  in  spite 
of  his  splendid  funer  il,  winding  from  the  city  by  the 
pyramid  and  the  sphinx,  —  in  spite  of  all  these  things, 
I  would  rather  have  been  the  hunter  Esau,  with  birth- 
right filched  away,  bankrupt  in  the  promise,  rich  only 
in  fle?t  foot  and  keen  spear ;  for  he  carried  into  the 
wilds  with  him  an  essentially  noble  nature  —  no  brother 
with  his  mess  ot  pottage  could  mulct  him  of  that. 
And  he  had  a  fine  revenge  ;  for,  when  Jacob,  on  his 
journey,  heard  that  his  brother  was  near  with  four 
hundred  men,  and  made  division  of  his  flocks  and 
herds,  his  man-s?rvants  and  maid-servants,  impetuous 
as  a  swollen  hill-torrent,  the  fierce  son  of  the  desert, 
baked  red  with  SjTian  light,  baped  down  upon  him, 
and  fell  on  his  neck  and  wept.  And  Esau  said, 
"  What  meanest  thou  by  all  this  drove  which  I 
met  ?  "  and  Jacob  said,  "  These  are  to  find  grace 
in  the  sight  of  my  lord ;  "  then  Esau  said,  "  I 
have  enough,  my  brother ;  keep  that  thou  hast  un- 
to thyself."  O  mighty  prince,  didst  thou  remem- 
ber thy  mother's  guile,  the    skins    upon    thy  hands 


284  On   Vagabonds. 

and  neck,  and  the  lie  put  upon  the  patriarch,  as, 
blind  with  years,  he  sat  up  in  his  bed  snuffing 
the  savory  meat  ?  An  ugly  memory,  I  should 
fancy ! 

Commend  mo  to  Shakspeare's  vagabonds,  the  most 
delightful  in  the  world  !  His  sweet-blooded  and  liberal 
nature  blossomed  into  all  fine  generosities  as  naturally 
as  an  apple-bough  into  pink-blossoms  and  odors. 
Listen  to  Gonsalvo  talking  to  the  shipwrecked  Milan 
nobles  camped  for  the  night  in  Prosp'^ro's  isle,  full  of 
sweet  voices,  with  Ariel  shooting  through  the  en- 
chanted air  like  a  falling  star  :  — 


"  Had  I  the  plantation  of  this  isle,  my  lord, 
I'  the  common wealtli  I  would  by  contraries 
Execute  all  thing's  ;  for  no  kind  of  traffic 
Would  I  admit ;  no  name  of  magistrate  ; 
Letters  should  not  be  known  ;  riches,  poverty, 
And  use  of  service  none  ;  contract,  succession. 
Bourne,  bound  of  laud,  tilth,  title,  vineyard  none ; 
No  use  of  metal  coin,  or  wine,  or  oil ; 
No  occupation  —  all  men  idle  —  all  ! 
And  women  too,  but  innocent  and  pure  ; 
No  sovereignty ; 

All  things  in  common  nature  should  produce, 
Without  sweat  or  endurance  ;  treason,  felony, 
Sword,  pike,  knife,  gun,  or  need  of  any  engine 
Would  I  not  have  ;  but  nature  would  bring  forth 
Of  its  own  kind  all  foison,  all  abundance, 
To  feed  my  innocent  people. 
I  would  with  such  perfection  govern,  sir, 
To  excel  the  golden  age." 


What  think  you  of  a  world  after  that  pattern  ? 
"  As  You  Like  It "  is  a  vagabond  play,  and  verily,  if 
there  waved  in  any  wind  that  blows  a  forest  peopled 


On   Vagabonds.  285 

like  Arden's,  with  an  exiled  king  drawing  the  sweet- 
est hiimanest  lessons  from  misfortune  ;  a  melancholy 
Jacques,  stretched  by  the  river  bank,  moralizing  on 
the  bleeding  deer  ;  a  fair  Rosalind,  chanting  her  saucy 
cuckoo  song ;  fools  like  Touchstone  —  not  like  those 
of  our  acquaintance,  my  friends  ;  and  the  whole  pi  ce, 
from  centre  to  circumference,  filled  with  mighty  oak 
bolls,  all  carven  with  lovers'  names,  —  if  such  a  forest 
waved  in  wind,  I  say,  I  would,  be  my  wordly  pros- 
pects what  they  might,  pack  up  at  once,  and  cast  in 
my  lot  with  that  vagabond  company.  For  there  I 
should  find  more  gallant  courtesies,  finer  sentiments, 
completer  innocence  and  happiness,  more  wit  and 
wisdom,  than  I  am  like  to  do  here  even,  though  I 
search  for  them  from  shepherd's  cot  to  kings  palace. 
Just  to  think  how  those  people  lived !  Carelessly  as 
the  blossoming  trees,  happily  as  the  singing  birds, 
time  measured  only  by  the  patter  of  the  acorn  on  the 
fruitful  soil !  A  world  without  debtor  or  creditor, 
passing  rich,  yet  with  never  a  doit  in  its  purse,  with 
no  sordid  care,  no  regard  for  appearances  ;  nothing 
to  occupy  the  young  but  love-making,  nothing  to 
occupy  the  old  but  perusing  the  "  sermons  in  stones" 
and  the  musical  wisdom  which  dwells  in  "  running 
brooks ! "  But  Arden  forest  draws  its  sustenance 
from  a  poet's  brain  :  the  light  that  sleeps  on  its  leafy 
pillows  is  "  the  light  that  never  was  on  sea  or  shore." 
We  but  please  and  tantalize  ourselves  with  beautiful 
dreams. 


286  On    Vagabonds. 

The  children  of  the  brain  become  to  us  actual 
existences,  more  actual  indeed  than  the  peoph  who 
impinge  upon  us  in  the  street,  or  who  live  next  door. 
We  are  more  intimate  with  Shakspeare's  men  and 
women  than  we  are  with  our  contemporaries,  and 
they  are,  on  the  whole,  better  company.  They  are 
more  beautiful  in  form  and  feature,  and  they  express 
themselves  in  a  way  that  the  most  gifted  strive  after 
in  vain.  What  if  Shakspeare's  people  could  walk 
out  of  the  play-books  and  settle  down  upon  some 
spot  of  earth  and  conduct  life  there !  There  would 
be  found  humanity's  whitest  wheat,  the  world's  unal- 
loyed gold.  The  very  winds  could  not  visit  the 
place  roughly.  No  king's  court  could  present  you 
such  an  array.  Where  else  could  we  find  a  philos- 
opher like  Hamlet  ?  a  friend  like  Antonio  ?  a  witty 
fellow  like  Mcrcutio  ?  where  else  Imogen's  piquant 
face  ?  Portia's  gravity  and  womanly  sweetness  ? 
Rosalind's  true  heart  and  silvery  laughter  ?  Corde- 
lia's beauty  of  holiness  ?  These  wovdd  form  the 
centre  of  the  court,  but  the  purlieus,  how  many-col- 
ored !  Malvolio  would  walk  mincingly  in  the  sun- 
shine there ;  Autolycus  would  filch  purses.  Sir 
Andrew  Aguecheek  and  Sir  Toby  Belch  would  be 
eternal  boon  companions.  And  as  Falstaff"  sets  out 
homeward  from  the  tavern,  the  portly  knight  leading 
the  revellers  like  a  throe-decker  a  lino  of  frigates, 
they  are  encountered  by  Dogberry,  who  summons 
them  to  stand  and  answer  to  the  watch  as  they  are 


On   Vagabonds.  287 

honest  men.  If  Mr.  Dickens's  characters  were  gath- 
ered together,  they  would  constitute  a  town  populous 
enough  to  send  a  representative  to  Parliament.  Let 
us  enter.  The  style  of  architecture  is  unparalleled. 
There  is  an  individuality  about  the  buildings.  In 
some  obscure  way  they  remind  one  of  human  faces. 
There  are  houses  sly-looking,  houses  wicked-looking, 
houses  pompous-looking.  Heaven  bless  us !  what  a 
rakish  pump !  what  a  self-important  town-hall !  what 
a  hard-hearted  prison  !  The  dead  walls  are  covered 
with  advertisements  of  Mr.  Sleary's  circus.  Newman 
Noggs  comes  shambling  along.  Mr.  and  the  Misses 
Pecksniff  come  sailing  down  the  sunny  side  of  the 
street.  Miss  Mercy's  parasol  is  gay  ;  papa's  neck- 
cloth is  white,  and  terribly  starched.  Dick  Swiveller 
leans  against  a  wall,  his  hands  in  his  pockets,  a  prim- 
rose held  between  his  teeth,  contemplating  the  opera 
of  Punch  and  Judy,  which  is  being  conducted  under 
the  management  of  Messrs.  Codlings  and  Short.  You 
turn  a  corner  and  you  meet  the  coffin  of  little  Paul 
Dombey  borne  along.  "Who  would  have  thought  of 
encountering  a  funeral  in  this  place  ?  In  the  after- 
noon you  hear  the  rich  tones  of  the  organ  from  Miss 
La  Creevy's  first  floor,  for  Tom  Pinch  has  gone  to 
live  there  now  ;  and  as  you  know  all  the  people  as 
you  know  your  own  brothers  and  sisters,  and  conse- 
quently require  no  letters  of  introduction,  you  go  up 
and  talk  with  the  dear  old  fellow  about  all  his  friends 
and  your  friends,  and  towards  evening  he  takes  your 


288  On   Vagabonds. 

arm,  and  you  walk  out  to  see  poor  Nelly's  grave  —  a 
place  which  he  visits  often,  and  which  he  dresses 
with  flowers  with  his  own  hands.  I  know  this  is  the 
idlest  dreaming,  but  all  of  us  have  a  sympathy  with 
the  creatures  of  the  drama  and  the  novel.  Around 
the  hardest  cark  and  toil  lies  the  imaginative  world 
of  the  poets  and  romancists,  and  thither  we  some- 
times escape  to  snatch  a  mouthful  of  serener  air. 
There  our  best  lost  feelings  have  taken  a  human 
shape.  We  suppose  that  boyhood  with  its  impulses 
and  enthusiasms  has  subsided  with  the  gray  cynical 
man  whom  we  have  known  these  many  years.  Not 
a  bit  of  it.  It  has  escaped  into  the  world  of  the 
poet,  and  walks  a  love-flushed  Romeo  in  immortal 
youth.  We  suppose  that  the  Mary  of  fifty  years 
since,  the  rose-bud  of  a  girl  that  crazed  our  hearts, 
blossomed  into  the  spouse  of  Jenkins,  the  stock- 
broker, and  is  now  a  grandmother.  Not  at  aU.  She 
is  Juliet  leaning  from  the  balcony,  or  Portia  talking 
on  the  moonlight  lawns  at  Belmont.  There  walk  the 
shadows  of  our  former  selves.  All  that  Time  steals 
he  takes  thither  :  and  to  live  in  that  world  is  to  live 
in  our  bst  youth,  our  lost  generosities,  illusions,  and 
romances. 

In  middle-class  life,  and  in  the  professions,  when  a 
standard  or  ide  d  is  tacitly  set  up,  to  which  every 
member  is  expected  to  conform  on  pain  of  having 
himself  talked  about,  and  wise  heads  shaken  over 
him,  the  quick  fe .dings  of  the  vagabond  are  not  fie- 


On    Vagabonds.  289 

quently  found.  Yet  thanks  to  Nature  !  who  sends  her 
leafage  and  flowerage  up  through  all  kinds  of  debris, 
and  who  takes  a  blossomy  possession  of  ruined  walls 
and  desert  places,  it  is  never  altogether  dead.  And  of 
vagabonds  not  the  least  delightful  is  he  who  retains 
poetry  and  boyish  spirits  beneath  the  crust  of  a  pro- 
fession. Mr,  Carlyle  commends  "  central  fire,"  and 
very  properly  commends  it  most  when  "  well  covered 
in."  In  the  case  of  a  professional  man,  this  "  central 
fire  "  does  not  manifest  itself  in  wasteful  explosive- 
ness,  but  in  secret  genial  heat  visible  in  fruits  of 
charity  and  pleasant  humor.  The  physician  who  is 
a  humorist  commends  himself  doubly  to  a  sick-bed. 
His  patients  are  as  much  indebted  for  their  cure 
to  his  smile,  his  voico,  and  a  certain  irresistible 
healthfulness  that  surrounds  him,  as  they  are  to  his 
skill  and  his  prescriptions.  The  lawyer  who  is  a 
humorist  is  a  man  of  ten  thousand.  How  easily  the 
worldly-wise  face  puckered  over  a  stiff  brief  relaxes 
into  the  lines  of  laughter.  He  sees  many  an  evil  side 
of  human  nature,  he  is  familiar  with  slanders  and 
injustice,  aU  kinds  of  human  bitterness  and  falsity ; 
but  neither  his  hand  nor  his  heart  becomes  "  imbued 
with  that  it  works  in  ; "  and  the  little  admixture  of 
acid,  inevitable  from  his  circumstances  and  mode  of 
life,  but  heightens  the  flavor  of  his  humor.  But  of 
all  humorists  of  the  professional  class,  I  prefer  the 
clergyman,  especially  if  he  is  well  stricken  in  years, 
and  has  been  anchored  all  his  life  in  a  country  charge. 
19 


290  On    Vagabonds 

He  is  none  of  your  loud  wits.  There  is  a  lady-like 
delicacy  in  his  mind,  a  constant  sense  of  his  holy 
office  which  warn  him  off  dangerous  subjects.  This 
reserve,  however,  does  but  improve  the  quality  of  his 
mirth.  What  his  humor  loses  in  boldness  it  gains 
in  depth  and  slyness.  And  as  the  good  man  has 
seldom  the  opportunity  of  making  a  joke,  or  of  pro- 
curing an  auditor  who  can  understand  one,  the  dewy 
glitter  of  his  eyes,  as  you  sit  opposite  him,  and  his 
heartfelt  enjoyment  of  the  matter  in  hand,  are  worth 
going  a  considerable  way  to  witness.  It  is  not,  how- 
ever, in  the  professions  that  the  vagabond  is  com- 
monly found.  Over  these  that  awful  and  ubiquitous 
female,  Mrs.  Grundy  —  at  once  Fate,  Nemesis,  and 
Fury  —  presides.  The  glare  of  her  eye  is  profession- 
al danger,  the  pointing  of  her  finger  is  professional 
death.  When  she  utters  a  man's  name  he  is  lost. 
The  true  vagabond  is  to  be  met  with  in  other  walks 
of  life,  —  among  actors,  poets,  painters.  These  may 
grow  in  any  way  their  nature  directs.  They  are  not 
required  to  conform  to  any  traditional  pattern.  With 
regard  to  the  respectabilities  and  the  "  minor  morals," 
the  world  permits  them  to  be  libertines.  Besides,  it 
is  a  temperament  peculiarly  sensitive,  or  generous, 
or  enjoying,  which  at  the  beginning  impels  these 
to  their  special  pursuits  ;  and  that  temperament,  like 
every  thing  else  in  the  world,  strengthens  with  use, 
and  grows  with  what  it  feeds  on.  We  look  upon  an 
actor,  sitting  amongst  ordinary  men  and  women,  with 


On    Vagabonds.  291 

a  certain  curiosity,  —  we  regard  him  as  a  creature  from 
another  planet,  almost.  His  life  and  his  world  are 
quite  diflPerent  from  ours.  The  orchestra,  the  foot- 
lights, and  the  green  baize  curtain  divide  us.  He  is 
a  monarch  half  his  time  —  his  entrance  and  his  exit 
proclaimed  by  flourish  of  trumpet.  He  speaks  in 
blank  verse,  is  wont  to  take  his  seat  at  gUded  ban- 
quets, to  drink  nothing  out  of  a  pasteboard  goblet. 
The  actor's  world  has  a  histoiy  amusing  to  read,  and 
lines  of  noble  and  splendid  traditions,  stretching  back 
to  charming  Nelly's  time  and  earlier.  The  actor  has 
strange  experiences.  He  sees  the  other  side  of  the 
moon.  We  roar  at  Grimalcli's  funny  face  :  he  sees 
the  lines  of  pain  in  it.  We  hear  Romeo  wish  to  be 
"  a  glove  upon  that  hand,  that  he  might  touch  that 
cheek  : "  three  minutes  afterwards  he  beholds  Romeo 
refresh  himself  with  a  pot  of  pcrtor.  We  see  the 
Moor,  who  "  loved  not  wisely  but  too  well,"  smother 
Desdemona  with  the  nuptial  bolster  :  he  sees  them  sit 
down  to  a  hot  supper.  We  always  think  of  the  actor 
as  on  the  stage :  he  always  thinks  of  us  as  in  the 
boxes.  In  justice  to  the  poets  of  the  present  day,  it 
may  be  noticed  that  they  have  improved  on  their 
brethren  in  Johnson's  time,  who  were,  according  to 
Lord  Macaulay,  hunted  by  bailiffs  and  familiar  with 
sponging-houses,  and  who,  when  hospitably  enter- 
tained, were  wont  to  disturb  the  household  of  the 
entertainer  by  roaring  for  hot  punch  at  four  o'clock 
in  the  morning.     Since  that  period  the  poets  have 


292  On    Vagabonds. 

improved  in  the  decencies  of  life  :  thoy  wear  broad- 
cloth, and  settle  their  tailors'  accounts  even  as  other 
men.  At  this  present  moment  Her  Majesty's  poets 
are  perhaps  the  most  respectable  of  Her  Majesty's 
subjects.  They  are  all  teetotallers  ;  if  they  sin,  it  is 
in  rhyme,  and  then  only  to  point  a  moral.  In  past 
days  the  poet  flew  from  flower  to  flower  gathering  his 
honey,  but  he  bore  a  sting,  too,  as  the  rude  hand  that 
touched  him  could  testify.  He  freely  gathers  his 
honey  as  of  old,  but  the  satiric  sting  has  been  taken 
away.  He  lives  at  peace  with  all  men — his  brethren 
excepted.  About  the  true  poet  still  there  is  some- 
thing of  the  ancient  spirit —  the  old  "  flash  and  out- 
break of  the  fiery  mind "  —  the  old  enthusiasm  and 
dash  of  humorous  eccentricity.  But  he  is  fast  disap- 
pearing from  the  catalogue  of  vagabonds  —  fast  getting 
commonplace,  I  fear.  Many  people  suspect  him  of 
dulness.  Besides,  such  a  crjwd  of  well-meaning, 
amiable,  most  respectable  men  have  broken  down  of 
late  years  the  pales  of  Parnassus,  and  become  squatters 
on  the  sacred  mount,  that  the  claim  of  poets  to  be  a 
peculiar  people  is  getting  disallowed.  Never  in  this 
world's  history  were  they  so  nam  tous  ;  and  although 
some  people  deny  that  they  are  poets,  few  are  can- 
tankerous enough  or  intrepid  eno.igh  to  assert  that 
they  are  vagabonds.  The  p  linter  is  the  most  agree- 
able of  vagabonds.  His  art  is  a  pleasant  one  :  it 
demands  some  little  minual  exertion,  and  it  takes 
him  at  times  into  the  open  air.     It  is  pleasant,  too, 


On    Vagabonds.  293 

in  this,  that  lines  and  colors  are  so  much  more 
palpable  than  words,  and  the  appeal  of  his  work  to 
his  practised  eye  has  some  satisfaction  in  it.  He 
knows  what  he  is  about.  He  does  not  altogether 
lose  his  critical  sense,  as  the  poot  does,  when  famil- 
iarity stales  his  subject,  and  takes  the  splendor  out  of 
his  images.  Moreover  his  work  is  more  profitable 
than  the  poet's.  I  suppose  there  are  just  as  few  great 
painters  at  the  present  day  as  there  are  great  poets  ; 
yet  the  yearly  receipts  of  the  artists  of  England  far 
exceed  the  receipts  of  the  singers.  A  picture  can 
usually  be  painted  in  less  time  than  a  poem  can  be 
written.  A  second-rate  picture  has  a  certain  market 
value  —  its  frame  is  at  least  something.  A  second-rate 
poem  is  utterly  worthless,  and  no  one  will  buy  it  on 
account  of  its  binding.  A  picture  is  your  own  ex- 
clusive property  :  it  is  a  costly  article  of  furniture. 
You  hang  it  on  your  walls  to  be  admired  by  all  the 
world.  Pictures  represent  wealth  :  the  possession  of 
them  is  a  luxury.  The  portrait-painter  is  of  all  men 
the  most  beloved.  You  sit  to  him  willingly,  and  put 
on  your  best  looks.  You  are  inclined  to  be  pleased 
with  his  work,  on  account  of  the  strong  prepossession 
you  entertain  for  his  subject.  To  sit  for  one's  portrait 
is  like  being  present  at  one's  own  creation.  It  is  an 
admirable  excuse  for  egotism.  You  would  not  dis- 
course of  the  falcon-like  curve  which  distinguishes 
your  nose,  or  the  sweet  serenity  of  your  reposing  lips, 
or  the  mildness  of  the  eye  that  spreads  a  light  over 


294  On    Vagabonds. 

your  countenance,  in  the  presence  of  a  fellow-creature 
for  the  whole  world,  yet  you  do  not  hesitate  to  express 
the  most  favorable  opinion  of  the  features  starting 
out  on  you  from  the  wet  canvas.  The  interest  the 
painter  takes  in  his  task  flatters  you.  And  when  the 
sittings  are  over,  and  you  behold  yourself  hanging  on 
your  own  wall,  looking  as  if  you  could  direct  king- 
doms or  lead  armies,  you  feel  grateful  to  the  artist. 
He  ministers  to  your  self-love,  and  you  pay  him  his 
hire  without  wincing.  Your  heart  warms  towards  him 
as  it  would  towards  a  poet  who  addresses  you  in  an 
ode  of  pan'^gyric,  the  kindling  terms  of  which  —  a  little 
astonishing  to  your  friends  —  you  believe  in  your  heart 
of  hearts  to  be  the  simple  truth,  and,  in  the  matter  of 
expression,  not  over-colored  in  the  very  least.  The 
portrait-painter  has  a  shrewd  eye  for  character,  and  is 
usually  the  best  anecdote-monger  in  the  world.  His 
craft  brings  him  into  contact  with  many  faces,  and  he 
learns  to  compare  them  curiously,  and  to  extract  their 
meanings.  He  can  interpret  wrinkles ;  he  can  look 
through  the  eyes  into  the  man ;  he  can  read  a  whole 
foregone  history  in  the  lines  about  the  mouth.  Be- 
sides, from  the  good  understanding  Avhich  usually 
exists  between  the  artist  and  his  sitter,  the  latter  is 
inclined  somewhat  to  unbosom  himself;  little  things 
leak  out  in  conversation,  not  much  in  themselves,  but 
pregnant  enough  to  the  painter's  sense,  who  pieces 
them  together,  and  constitutes  a  tolerably  definite 
image.     The  man  who  paints  your  face  knows  you 


On    Vagabonds.  295 

better  than  your  intimate  friends  do,  and  has  a 
clearer  knowledge  of  your  amiable  weaknesses,  and 
of  the  secret  motives  which  influence  your  conduct, 
than  you  oftentimes  have  yourself.  A  good  portrait 
is  a  kind  of  biography,  and  neither  painter  nor  biog- 
rapher can  carry  out  his  task  satisfactorily  unless  he 
be  admitted  behind  the  scenes.  I  think  that  the  land- 
scape-painter, who  has  acquired  sufficient  mastery  in 
his  art  to  satisfy  his  own  critical  sense,  and  who  is 
appreciated  enough  to  find  purchasers,  and  thereby 
to  keep  the  wolf  from  the  door,  must  be  of  all  man- 
kind the  happiest.  Other  men  live  in  cities,  bound 
down  to  some  settled  task  and  order  of  life,  but  he  is 
a  nomad,  and  wherever  he  goes  "  Beauty  pitches  her 
tents  before  him,"  He  is  smitten  by  a  passionate  love 
for  Nature,  and  is  privileged  to  follow  her  into  her 
solitary  haunts  and  recesses.  Nature  is  his  mistress, 
and  he  is  continually  making  declarations  of  his  love. 
When  one  thinks  of  ordinary  occupations,  how  one 
envies  him,  flecking  his  oak-tree  boll  with  sunlight, 
tinging  with  rose  the  cloud  of  the  morning  in  which 
the  lark  is  hid,  making  the  sea's  swift  fringe  of  foaming 
lace  outspread  itself  on  the  level  sands,  in  which  the 
pebbles  gleam  forever  wet.  The  landscape-painter's 
memory  is  inhabited  by  the  fairest  visions :  —  dawn 
burning  on  the  splintered  peaks  that  the  eagles  know, 
while  the  valleys  beneath  aro  yet  filled  with  uncertain 
light  —  the  bright-  blue  morn  stretching  over  miles  of 
moor  and  mountain  —  the  slow  up-gathering  of  the 


296  On    Vagabonds 

bellied  thunder-cloud — summer  lakes,  and  cattle  knee- 
deep  in  them  —  rustic  bridges  forever  crossed  by  old 
women  in  scarlet  cloaks  —  old-fashioned  wagons  rest- 
ing on  the  scrubby  common,  the  wagoner  lazy  and 
wayworn,  the  dog  couched  on  the  ground,  its  tongue 
hanging  out  in  the  heat — boats  drawn  up  on  the  shore 
at  sunset ;  the  fisher's  children  looking  seawards,  the 
red  light  full  on  their  dresses  and  faces ;  farther  back, 
a  clump  of  cottages,  with  bait-baskets  about  the  door, 
and  the  smoke  of  the  evening  meal  coiling  up  into 
the  colored  air.  These  things  are  forever  with  him. 
Beauty,  which  is  a  luxury  to  other  men,  is  his  daily 
food.  Happy  vagabond,  who  lives  the  whole  summer 
through  in  the  light  of  his  mistress's  face,  and  who 
does  nothing  the  whole  winter  except  recall  the  splen- 
dor of  her  smiles ! 

The  vagabond,  as  I  have  explained  and  sketched 
him,  is  not  a  man  to  tremble  at,  or  avoid  as  if  he  wore 
contagion  in  his  touch.  He  is  upright,  generous, 
innocent,  is  conscientious  in  the  performance  of  his 
duties ;  and  if  a  little  eccentric  and  fond  of  the  open 
air,  he  is  full  of  good  nature  and  mirthful  charity. 
He  may  not  make  money  so  rapidly  as  you  do,  but  I 
cannot  help  thinking  that  he  enjoys  lif^  a  great  deal 
more.  The  quick  feeling  of  life,  the  exuberance  of 
animal  spirits  which  break  out  in  the  traveller,  the 
sportsman,  the  poet,  the  painter,  should  be  more  gen- 


On    Vagabonds.  297 

erally  diffused.  We  should  be  all  the  better  and  all 
the  happier  for  it.  Life  ought  to  be  freer,  heartier, 
more  enjoyable  than  it  is  at  present.  If  the  profes- 
sional fetter  must  be  worn,  let  it  be  worn  as  lightly 
as  possible.  It  should  never  be  permitted  to  canker 
the  limbs.  We  are  a  free  people,  —  we  have  an  un- 
shackled press,  —  we  have  an  open  platform,  and  can 
say  our  say  upon  it,  no  king  or  despot  making  us 
afraid.  We  send  representatives  to  Parliament ;  the 
franchise  is  always  going  to  be  extended.  All  this  is 
very  fine,  and  we  do  well  to  glory  in  our  privileg  s  as 
Britons.  But,  although  we  enjoy  greater  political 
freedom  than  any  other  people,  we  are  the  victims  of 
a  petty  social  tyranny.  We  are  our  own  despots  — 
we  tremble  at  a  neighbor's  whisper.  A  man  may 
say  what  he  likes  on  a  public  platform  —  he  may 
publish  whatever  opinion  he  chooses  —  but  he  dare 
not  wear  a  peculiar  fashion  of  hat  on  the  street. 
Eccentricity  is  an  outlaw.  Public  opinion  blows  like 
the  east  wind,  blighting  bud  and  blossom  on  the 
human  bough.  As  a  consequence  of  all  this,  society 
is  losing  picturesqueness  and  variety — we  are  aU  grow- 
ing up  after  one  pattern.  In  other  matters  than  archi- 
tecture past  times  may  be  represented  by  the  wonderful 
ridge  of  the  Old  Town  of  Edinburgh,  where  every  thing 
is  individual  and  characteristic ;  the  present  time  by 
the  streets  and  squares  of  the  New  Town,  where  every 
thing  is  gray,  cold,  and  respectable  ;  where  every  house 


298  On    Vagabonds. 

is  the  other's  alter  ego.  It  is  true  that  life  is  healthier 
in  the  formal  square  than  in  the  pUed-up  picturesque- 
ness  of  the  Canongate,  —  quite  true  that  sanitary  con- 
ditions are  better  observed,  —  that  pure  water  flows 
through  every  tenement  like  blood  through  a  human 
body,  —  that  daylight  has  free  access,  and  that  the 
apartments  are  larger  and  higher  in  the  roof.  But 
every  gain  is  purchased  at  the  expense  of  some  loss ; 
and  it  is  best  to  combine,  if  possible,  the  excellences  of 
the  old  and  the  new.  By  all  means  retain  the  modern 
breadth  of  light  and  range  of  space,  —  by  all  means 
have  water  plentiful  and  bed-chambers  ventilated,  — 
but  at  the  same  time  have  some  little  freak  of  fancy 
without  —  some  ornament  about  the  door,  some  device 
about  the  window  —  something  to  break  the  cold,  gray, 
stony  uniformity ;  or,  to  leave  metaphor,  which  is 
always  dangerous  ground,  —  for  I  really  don't  wish  to 
advocate  Ruskinism  and  the  Gothic,  —  it  would  be 
better  to  have,  along  with  our  modern  enlightenment, 
our  higher  tastes  and  purer  habits,  a  greater  indi- 
viduality of  thought  and  manner  ;  better,  while  retain- 
ing all  that  we  have  gained,  that  harmless  eccentricity 
should  be  respected — that  every  man  should  be  allowed 
to  grow  in  his  own  way,  so  long  as  he  does  not  infringe 
on  the  rights  of  his  neighbor,  or  insolently  thrust  him- 
self between  him  and  the  sun.  A  little  more  air 
and  light  should  be  let  in  upon  life.  I  should  think 
the  world  has  stood  long  enough  under  the  drill  of 


On    Vagabonds.  299 

Adjutant  Fashion.  It  is  hard  work ;  the  posture  is 
wearisome,  and  Fashion  is  an  awful  martinet,  and  has 
a  quick  eye,  and  comes  down  mercilessly  on  the  un- 
fortunate wight  who  cannot  square  his  toes  to  the 
approved  pattern,  or  who  appears  upon  parade  with 
a  dam  in  his  coat,  or  with  a  shoulder-belt  insufficiently 
pipe-clayed.  It  is  killing  work.  Suppose  we  try 
"  standing  at  ease  "  for  a  little  ! 


THE    END. 


IRENE  E,  JEROME'S    .    .    .    . 
^   .••*..    .    n  RT  nnnicc" 


AEI  BOOKS 


THE    "PERPETUAL    PLEASURE"    SERIES 

"  The  shetches  are  isuch  as  the  most  famous  men  of  the  country  might 
be  proud  to  own.  They  are  original,  strong,  and  impressive,  even  the 
lightest  of  them ;  and  their  variety,  lihe  a  procession  of  Nature,  is  a 
perpetual  pleasure." 


A    BUNCH    OF   VIOLETS.     Original   illustrations,  engraved  on 
wood  and  printed  under  the  direction  of  Geokge  T.  Andrew.     410,  t  loih, 
$3-75;  Turkey  morocco,  $9.00;  tree  calf,  $9.00;   English  seal  style„$7.oo. 
The  new  volume  is  akin  to  the  former  triumphs  of  this  favorite  artist,  vhos© 
"  Sketch  Books  "  have  achieved  a  popularity  unequalled  in  the  history  of  tine 
art   publications.     In   the  profusion   of  designs,  originality,  and  delicacy  of 
treatment,   the   charming   sketches  of  mountain,    meadow,   lake,   and   forest 
scenery  of  New  England  here  reproduced  are  unexcelled.    After  the  wealth  of 
illustration  which  this  student  of  nature  has  poured  into  the  lap  of  art,  to  pro- 
duce a  volume  in  which  there  is  no  deterioration  of  power  or  beauty,  but,  if 
possible,  increased  strength  and  enlargement  of  ideas,  gives  assurance  that  the 
oremost  female  artist  in  America  will  hold  the  hearts  of  her  legion  of  admirers. 

NATURE'S.   HALLELUJAH.     Presented  in  a  series  of  nearly 

fifty  full-page  original  illustrations  (g!^  x  14  inches),  engraved  on  wood  by 

George  T.  Andrew.     Elegantly  bound  in  gold  cloth,  full  gilt,  gilt  edges, 

$6.00:  Turkey  morocco,  $12  00;  tree  calf,  $12.00;  English  seal  style,  $10.00. 

This  volume  has  won  the  most  cordial  praise  on  both  sides  of  the  water. 

Mr,  Francis  H.  Underwood,  U.  S   Consul  at  Glasgow,  writes  concerning  it: 

"  1  have  never  seen  anything  superior,  if  equal,  to  the  delicacy  and  finish  of 

the  engravings,  and  the  perfection  of  the  press-work.     The  copy  you  sent  me 

has  been  looked  over  with  evident  a«d  unfeigned  delight  by  many  people  of 

artistic  ta,ste.     Every   one  frankly  says,  '  It  is  impossible  to  produce  such 

effects  here,'  and,  whether  it  is  possible  or  not,  I  am  sure  it  is  not  done  ;  no 

such  effects  are  produced  on  this  side  of  the  Atlantic.     In  this  combination  of 

art  and  workmanship,  the  United  States  leads  the  world;  and  you  have  a  right 

to  be  proud  of  the  honor  of  presenting  such  a  specimen  to  the  public." 

ONE  YEAR'S  SKETCH  BOOK,  Containing  forty  six  full 
page  original  illustrations,  engraved  on  wood  by  Andrew;  in  same  binding? 
and  at  same  prices  as  "  Nature's  Hallelujah." 

"  Every  thick,  creamy  page  is  embellished  by  some  gems  of  art.  Sometimei- 
it  is  but  a  dash  and  a  few  trembling  strokes;  at  others  an  impressive  landscape 
but  in  all  and  through  all  runs  the  master  touch.  Miss  Jerome  has  the  geniur 
of  an  Angelo,  and  the  execution  of  a  Guido.  The  beauty  of  the  sketches  will 
be  apparent  to  all,  having  been  taken  from  our  unrivalled  New  England 
scenery." —  Washingtoti  Chronicle. 

THE   MESSAGE  OF  THE   BLUEBIRD,  Told  to  Me 

to  Tell  to  Others.  Original  illustrations  engraved  on  wood  by 
Andrew.  Cloth  and  gold,  $2.00;  palatine  boards,  ribbon  ornaments,  $1  00. 
"  In  its  new  bindings  is  one  of  the  daintiest  combinations  of  sorg  and  illus- 
tration ever  published,  exhibiting  in  a  marked  degree  the  fine  poetic  taste  and 
wonderfully  artistic  touch  which  render  this  author's  works  so  popular.  The 
pictures  are  exquisite,  and  the  verses  exceedingly  graceful,  appealing  to  the 
highest  sensibilities.  The  little  volume  ranks  among  the  choicest  of  holiday 
souvenirs,  and  is  beautiful  and  pleasing."  —  Boston  Transcript. 


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GERMANY     SEEN     WITHOUT     SPECTACLES;    or,    landom 
Sketches  of  Various  Subjects,  Penned  from  Different  Stand- 
points in  the  Empire 
By  Heskv  Rugglrs,  laie  United  States  Consul  at  the  Island  of  Malta,  and 

at  Barcelona,  Spain.     $1.50. 

"  Mr.  Ruggles  writes  briskly:  he  chats  and  gossips,  slashing  right  and  left 
with  stout  American  prejudices,  and  has  made  withal   a   most  entertaining 
book  '  —  New-Vork  Tribune. 
TRAVELS   AND   OBSERVATIONS    IN    THE   ORIENT,  with  a 

Hasty  Flight  in  the  Countries  of  Europe 
By  Walter  Hakkiman  (ex-Governor  of  New  Hampshire).     $1.50. 

"  The  author,  m  his  graphic  description  of  these  .sacred  localities,  refers 
with  great  aptness  to  scenes  and  personages  which  history  has  made  famous 
It  is  a  chatty  narrative  of  travel."  —  Concord  Monitor. 
FORE   AND   AFT 
A  Story  of  Actual  ."^ea-Life.     By  Robert  B.  Dixon,  M.D.    $1.25. 

Travels  in  Mexico,  with  vivid  descriptions  of  manners  and  customs,  form  a 
large  part  of  this  striking  narrative  of  a  fourteen-months'  voyage. 
VqY^GE   OF   THE    PAPER   CANOK 
A  Geographical  Journey  of  Twenty-five  Hundred  Miles  from  Quebec  to  the 

Gulf  of  Mexico.      By  Nathaniel  H.  Bishop.     With  numerous  illustra- 
tions and  maps  specially  prepared  for  this  work.     Crown  8vo      $1.50. 

"  Mr.   Bishop  did  a  very  bold  thing,  and  has   described  it  with  a  happy 
mixture  of  spirit,  keen  observation,  and  bonhomie ."  —  London  Graphic. 
FOUR   MONTHS   IN   A    SNEAK-BOX 
A  Boat  Voyage  of  Twenty-six  Hundred  Miles  down  the  Ohio  and  Mississippi 

Rivers,  and  along  the  Gulf  of  Mexico.     By  Nathaniel  H.  Bishop.    With 

numerous  maps  and  illustrations.     $1.50. 

"His  glowing  pen-pictures  of  '  shanty-boat '  life   on   the   great  rivers  are 
true  to  life.     His  descriptions  of  persons  and  places  are  graphic."  —  Zion'i 
Herald. 
A   THOUSAND   MILES'  WALK   ACROSS  SOUTH  AMERICA, 

Over  the  Pampas  and  the  Andes 
By  Natmaniel  H.  Bishop.     Crown  8vo.     New  edition.     Illustrated.     $1.50. 

"  Mr.  Bishop  made  this  journey  when  a  boy  of  sixteen,  has  never  forgotten 
it,  and  tells  it  in  such  a  way  that  the  reader  will  always  remember  it,  and 
wish  there  had  been  more" 
CAMPS   IN   THE    CARIBBEES 
Being  the  Adventures  of  a  Naturalist  Bird-hunting  in  the  West-India  Islands. 

By  Fred  A.  Oher.     New  edition.     With  maps  and  illustrations.     $1.50. 

"  During  two  years  he  visited  mountains,  forests,  and  people,  that  few,  if 
any,  tourists  had  ever  reached  before.     He  carried  his  cameri  with  him,  and 
photographed  from  nature  the  scenes  by  which  the  book  is  illustrated."  — 
Loni.MiiUe  Courier- Journal. 
ENGLAND    FROM     A    BACK     WINDOW;    With     Views    of 

Scotland  and  Ireland 
By  J.  M    Bailey,  the  "  '  Danbury  News'  Man."    lamo.     $1.00. 

"  The  peculiar  humor  of  this  writer  is  well  known.  The  British  Isles  have 
never  before  been  looked  at  in  just  the  same  way,  —  at  least,  not  by  any  one 
who  has  notified  us  of  the  {..ci.  Mr.  Bailey's  travels  jjossess,  accordingly,  a 
value  of  their  own  for  the  reader,  no  matter  how  many  previous  records  of 
journeys  in  the  mother  :ountry  he  may  have  read."—  Rochester  Express. 

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BQQ^s  OF  Yravel 

DRIFTING    ROUND    THE    WORLD;    A  Boy's  Adventures  by 

Sea  and  Land 
By  Capt.  Charles  W.  Hall,  author  of  "  Adrift  in  the  Ice-Fields,"  "  The 
Great  Bonanza,"  etc.     With  numerous  full-page  and  letter-press  illustra- 
tions.    Royal  Svo.     Handsome  cover.     $1.75.     Cloth,  gilt,  $2.50. 
"Out  of  the  beaten  track"  in  its  course  of  travel,  record  of  adventures, 
»nd  descriptions  of  life  in  Greenland,  Labrador,  Ireland,  Scotland,  England, 
France,  Holland,  Russia,  Asia,  Siberia,  and  Alaska.     Its  hero  is  young,  bold, 
and  adventurous;  and  the  book  is  in  every  way  interesting  and  attractive. 

EDWAFtO   eR£EY'S  JAPANESE  SERIES 
VOUNG  AMERICANS   IN  JAPAN  ;  or.  The  Adventures  of  the 

Jewett  Family  and  their  Friend  Oto  Nambo 
With  170  full-page  and  letter-press  illustrations.     Royal  Svo,  7  x  gj  inches. 
Handsomely  illuminated  cover.     $1.75-     Cloih,  black  and  gold,  $2.50. 
This  story,  though  essentially  a  work  of  fiction,  is  filled  with  interesting  and 
truthful  descriptions  of  the  curious  ways  of  living  of  the  good  people  of  the 
'and  of  the  rising  sun. 

THE  WONDERFUL  CITY  OF  TOKIO;  or,  The  Further  Ad- 
ventures of  the  Jewett  Family  and  their  Friend  Oto  Nambo 
With  169  illustrations.     Royal  Svo,  7  x  95  inches.     With  cover  in  gold  and 

colors,  designed  by  the  author.     $1.75.     Cloth,  black  and  gold,  $2.50. 

"  A  book  full  of  delightful  information.  The  author  has  the  happy  gift  of 
permitting  the  reader  to  view  things  as  he  saw  them.  The  illustrations  are 
mostly  drawn  by  a  Japanese  artist,  and  are  very  unique." — Chicago  Herald. 

THE  BEAR  WORSHIPPERS  OF  YEZO  AND  THE  ISLAND 
OF  KARAFUTO ;  being  the  further  Adventures  of  the 
Jeweti  Family  and  their  Friend  Oto  Nambo 

180  illustrations.     Boards,  $1.75.     Cloth,  $2.50. 

Graphic  pen  and  pencil  pictures  of  the  remarkable  bearded  people  who  live 
in  the  north  of  Japan.  The  illustrations  are  by  native  Japanese  artists,  and 
give  queer  pictures  of  a  queer  people,  who  have  been  seldom  visited. 

W/1/?ffK   IV.  FRENCHES  BOOKS 
OUR   BOYS   IN   INDIA 

The  wanderings  of  two  young  Americans  in  Hindustan,  with  their  exciting 
adventures  on  the  sacred  rivers  and  wild  mountains.  With  145  illustrations. 
Royal  Svo,  7x9^  inches.  Bound  in  emblematic  covers  of  Oriental  design, 
$1.75.     Cloth,  black  and  gold,  $2.50. 

W'hile  it  has  all  the  exciting  interest  of  a  romance,  it  is  remarkably  vivid  in 
its  pictures  of  manners  and  customs  in  the  land  of  the  Hindu.     The  illustra- 
*  tions  are  many  and  excellent. 

OUR   BOYS    IN   CHINA 

The  adventures  of  two  young  Americans,  wrecked  in  the  China  Sea  on  their 
return   from    India,  with   their  strange   wanderings   through   the   Chinese 
Empire.     t88  illustrations.     Boards,  ornamental  covers  in  colors  and  gold, 
$1.75.     Cloth,  $2  50. 
This  gives  the  further  adventures  of"  Our  Boys"  of  India  fame  in  the  land 

»f  Teas  and  Queues. 

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OOKS  OF  TRAVEL 


BRIGHT    DOOKSOF  TRfl 
AND      O  .  ,  ,  -~r ,  r~~r 
RJEEZY      -  -  -  -  BY  SIX   BRIGHT   WOMEN 


A   WINTER   IN   CENTRAL   AMERICA   AND   MEXICO 

By  Helen  J.  Sanborn.    Cloth,  $1.50. 
"  A  bright,  attractive  narrative  by  a  wide-awake  Boston  girl." 

A   SUMMER   IN   THE   AZORES,  with  a  Glimpse  of  Madeira 

By  Miss  C.  Alice  Baker.     Little  Classic  >tyle.     Cloth,  gilt  edges,  $1.25. 
"  Miss  Baker  gives  us  a  breezy,  entertaining  description  of  these  picturesque 

islands      She  is  an  observing  traveller,  and  makes  a  graphic  picture  of  the 

quaint  people  and  customs."  —  Chicago  Advance. 

LIFE   AT   PUGET   SOUND 

With  sketches  of  travel  in  Washington  Territory,  British  Columbia,  Oregon, 
and  California.     By  Caroline  C.   Leighton.     i6mo,  cloth,  $1.50. 
"  Your  chapters  on  Puget  Sound  have  charmed  me.     Full  of  life,  deeply 

interesting,  and   with  just   that  class  of  fjcts,  and  sugge>.tions  of  truth,  that 

cannot  fail  to  help  the  Indian  and  the  Chinese."  —  Wendell  Phillips. 

EUROPEAN   BREEZES 

By  Margery  Deane.      Cloth,  gilt  top,  $1.50.      Being  chapters  of  travel 
through  Germany,  Austria,  Hungary,  and  Switzerland,  covering  places  not 
usually   visited  by  Americans  in  making  "  the  Grand  Tour  of  the  Conti- 
nent," by  the  accomplished  writer  of  "  Newport  Breezes." 
"  A  very  bright,  fresh   and  amusing  account,  which  tells  us  about  a  host  of 

things  we  never  heard  01  before,  and  is  worth  two  ordinary  books  of  European 

travel."  —  Woman's  Journal. 

BEATEN   PATHS  ;   or,  A  Woman's  Vacation  iu  Europe 

By  ELI.A  W.  Thompson      i6mo,  cloth.     $1  50. 
A  lively  and  chatty  book  of  travel,  with  pen-pictures  humorous  and  graphic, 

that  are  decidedly  out  of  the  "  beaten  paths  "  of  description. 

AN    AMERICAN    GIRL   ABROAD 

By   Miss   AcELiNE   Trafton,   author  of  "His   Inheritance,"  "  Katherine 
Earle,"  etc      i6mo.     Illustrated.     $1.50. 
"  A  sparkling  account  of  a  European  trip  by  a  wide-awake,  intelligent,  and 

irrepressible  American  girl.     Pictured  with  a  freshness  and  vivacity  that  is 

delightful."  —  Utica  Observer. 

CURTIS   GUILD'S   TRAVELS 
BRITONS  AND  MUSCOVITES;  or,  Traits  of  Two  Empires 

Cloth,  $2.00. 

OVER   THE  OCEAN;  or.  Sights  and  Scenes  in  Foreign  Lands 
By  Curtis  Gwld,  editor  of  "  The  Boston  Commercial  Bulletin  '    '"^rown  8vo. 

Cloth,  $2.50. 

"  The  utmost  that  any  European  tourist  can  hope  to  do  is  to  tell  the  old 
story  In  a  somewhat  fre-h  way,  and  Mr.  Guild  has  succeeded  in  every  part  of 
his  book  in  doing  this."  —  Philadel(>hia  Bulletin. 
AfcSROAD   AGAIN;  or,  Fresh  Forays  in  Foreign  Fields 
Uniform    with    "  Over   the   Ocean."      By    the    same    author.      Crown   8vo. 

Cloth,  $2.50. 

"  He  has  given  us  a  life-picture.  Europe  is  done  in  a  style  that  must  serve 
as  an  invaluable  guidt  to  those  who  go  '  over  the  ocean,'  as  well  as  an  intcr- 
cp'in^  companion."  —  Halifax  Citiun. 


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5 


^^u* 


